“Unusual,” she commented.
“It’s been passed down through my family for generations, like a porcelain gravy boat or a Revere bowl,” Bridger explained. “Always conferred upon the second son, possibly meant as a consolation.”
“And you’re a second son?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Technically?”
“My older half brother, Tristan, was killed at First Manassas.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Caroline said.
Bridger did not respond. He settled deeper into his pillows and studied the ceiling.
It was as though he had released her from some spell; suddenly, she was able to move of her own volition.
She stepped into the corridor, pulled the door closed behind her.
Rachel immediately emerged from Caroline’s room, her pinafore on backward, her shoes unlaced, but on the right feet, at least.
“Did Mr. Windlesnow fall asleep?” the little girl asked.
“I think so,” Caroline said, extending one hand.
Rachel came to her, shifting Dolly to her left arm, then placing her index finger to her lips, the way she had before. “Shhh,” she said.
Finally, she took her mother’s hand.
Downstairs, Caroline crouched to draw Rachel’s shoelaces tight and tie them in sturdy bows. After standing up again, she set the little girl’s pinafore to rights as well, but in a matter-of-fact way, to show that she appreciated Rachel’s earnest effort.
“There,” she said. “Let’s go feed the chickens, shall we?”
Rachel nodded eagerly. She’d been confined to the house most of the time soldiers were present, and that had been difficult for her, as she was an active child and loved being outdoors.
After fetching the basin of potato peelings from the kitchen house and a bucket of grain from the barn, mother and daughter strewed feed everywhere, watching with pleasure as the chickens flapped their wings and busily pecked the ground.
In those sun-washed moments, with dusk still several hours away, Caroline could almost believe there was no war, that Jacob wasn’t dead and buried, but merely working in the fields with Enoch, or off on some errand in town, sure to be back in time for supper.
Almost.
They had just entered the kitchen house when the shamble and clatter of an approaching wagon put an end to the pretense of normality Caroline had so carefully constructed. She knew this wasn’t Enoch back from town, because she knew the sound of the Hammond wagon, as well as those belonging to most of her neighbors. For all their commonalities, each rig had its own unique rhythm of squeaks and thumps and rasps.
“Stay here,” she told Rachel, using the soiled fabric of her apron to wipe her hands.
As was usual, Rachel didn’t stay, but dashed out of the kitchen house through the open door and into the yard.
Caroline hurried after her, half-frantic and every bit as curious as her child.
The vehicle wending its way up from the gate was enclosed, like a gypsy wagon, lacquered in black but dulled by layers of dust. An old man in shabby clothes sat high above the ground, holding the reins, shocks of white hair protruding from under his once-fine bowler hat.
Two scrawny mules pulled the rig, heads down, flank muscles straining.
Caroline caught up with Rachel a moment before she might have fallen beneath the hooves of those poor animals.
“Mama,” Rachel cried joyfully, “is that a circus wagon?”
The question nearly broke Caroline’s heart. To her, the vehicle looked more like a hearse.
“No, darling,” she said gently. “I’m afraid there’s no circus.”
“Ho, ho!” cried the jovial old man, lifting his bowler hat completely off his bedraggled head in greeting. “Mordecai Splott, purveyor of fine goods and sundries, at your service!”
A peddler, Caroline concluded. When had she last seen one?
Reluctantly, she waved. She was too frugal to purchase anything, but one did not turn away weary travelers, particularly so late in the day.
She would invite this Mr. Splott to supper, allow him to water his mules and turn them out to graze in her pasture, and permit him to spend the night in the barn, if he wished.
“Ho, ho!” Mr. Splott shouted again, leaping from the seat of the wagon, nimble for a man of his years.
“Ho-ho!” Rachel replied with such delight that Caroline smiled.
Mr. Splott strode over to them and, still holding his hat in one hand, executed a deep and remarkably graceful bow. When he straightened, somewhat less easily than he’d bent himself double moments before, he sent Caroline a conspiratorial wink and turned his crystal-blue eyes to Rachel.
“I don’t suppose you would happen to be Miss Rachel Hammond, of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania?”
Rachel squealed in happy wonder. Clapped her hands. “That’s me!” she crowed, all but jumping up and down.
Caroline was far less enthusiastic. Who was this man, and why did he, a total stranger, know her daughter’s name?
“Well, then,” Mr. Splott said expansively, “you are just the person I’ve been searching for, lo these many weary miles.” He glanced at Caroline again, his eyes full of kindness beneath their bristly brows, then returned his attention to Rachel, who was still bouncing on the balls of her feet. “And what a magnificent thing it is to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Hammond.”
Caroline cleared her throat delicately. “What is this about, Mr.—er—Splott?”
Splott’s eyes twinkled with merry mystery. Instead of answering, he raised one index finger in a cheerful bid for patience, turned and strode toward his wagon, and before Caroline could stop her, Rachel ran after him.
Caroline followed, nearly stumbling over the hem of her dress in her haste.
Rachel and Mr. Splott were standing behind the wagon when she reached them.
“My instructions,” Mr. Splott said ebulliently, “were to deliver my cargo to one Miss Rachel Hammond and none other.”
Behind the ornate door of the filthy wagon, something scratched and whimpered.
“Is there a tiger in there?” Rachel wanted to know.
“Something far better than a tiger, my dear.” Mr. Splott worked the latch and opened the door, and a small brown-and-white dog leaped out so suddenly that Caroline started.
“A dog!” Mr. Splott whooped theatrically.
Rachel shrieked with pleasure, dropping to her knees in the scarred grass and laughing as the little animal jumped up and repeatedly licked her face.
“A gift from Captain Rogan McBride,” Mr. Splott told Caroline, with the satisfaction of a job well done. “The dog’s name is Sweet Girl, I’m told, and I can vouch for her good temperament, having journeyed from Harrisburg in her singular company.”
“Ho, ho,” Caroline muttered.
20
Hammond Farm
July 15, 1863
Bridger
He had been rolling his wounded shoulder in slow, agonizing circles, knowing the muscles would continue to atrophy if he didn’t use them, when he heard a single wagon lumbering up from the road.
Drenched in sweat, his stomach churning with nausea from the pain, Bridger went still, listening, his attention trained on the sounds he could hear. Previous attempts to leave the bed had gotten him no farther than the edge of the mattress, where he’d lain trembling and gasping for breath until the pain subsided and he’d found the strength to shift onto his back.
Now, here was another lesson in humility. He, the expert horseman, the cavalier, the inveterate charmer of women, girls, dogs and small children, completely helpless.
His father would have been pleased.
All he could do now was listen. And think.
One wagon, drawn by no more than two horses or mules. A jovial male voice calling out an old-f
ashioned greeting.
The child, Rachel, chiming a response.
The happy yip-yip-yip of a dog, most likely a small one, judging by the pitch of its bark.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and briefly hoped that Caroline was returning.
Instead, when his door opened, Jubie stood on the threshold, bearing a bowl of steaming, fragrant soup. A spoon handle jutted up at one side.
“Who is that?” Bridger asked, inclining his head slightly in the direction of the window.
“Some peddler fella brought Rachel a dog,” she said.
She had reached his bedside but his letter from Amalie was in her way; she clearly didn’t want to rest the bowl of soup on the nightstand while it lay there.
Using his left hand, Bridger gathered the pages and held them. The words seemed to seep into the flesh of his fingers—Papa—pneumonia—funeral—come home, no, don’t—blockade—so he withdrew his hand, leaving the letter to spill across the blanket.
Jubie set the bowl down.
The scent of boiled beans, ham and onions repulsed him, but he was ravenously hungry.
“Thank you. I can feed myself,” he said. He managed to raise himself as far as his elbows, then a little farther, so that he was almost, but not quite, sitting. Awkwardly, he picked up the bowl, centered it in his lap, and brought a spoonful of decidedly good soup to his mouth.
Such a small accomplishment, but an important one, at least to him.
“Miss Caroline don’t seem too pleased about the dog,” Jubie commented.
“Every farm ought to have at least one dog,” Bridger said in one of the exasperatingly slow intervals of lowering his spoon to the bowl. “They make for good company.”
Jubie did not look in his direction. “Do you keep slaves, Mr. Winslow?” she asked suddenly.
Shocked, Bridger wondered for a second whether they were talking about dogs or humans. “My father did,” he admitted. “But he’s dead now,” Bridger said.
He didn’t know how he felt about his father’s death. He labored to haul another mouthful of soup from bowl to mouth, savored and chewed and finally swallowed, all before he responded. “What you’re really asking,” he said, “is what I think of the institution of slavery. The answer is, I was born into a world where the practice was widely accepted. I knew our cook and housekeeper, Rosebud, had been my wet nurse when I was an infant, and that she had raised my mother, too. She sang songs and told stories and treated me, my sister and our older brother with more affection than either of our parents ever had. I loved her then, and I love her still.
“Then there was Abel, her son. He drove the carriages and acted as a butler when company came, or my mother held a party, which was often. He taught me to ride when I was four years old. How to catch fish, and find the best berry patches in the woods and about a thousand other things. When my father hired a tutor to teach Amalie and me to read, write and cipher, I taught Abel in turn.”
“But they were still your slaves, Rosebud and her Abel.” Jubie sounded deflated. Her proud shoulders stooped.
“My father owned them, yes,” Bridger said quietly. It would do no good to explain that both Rosebud and Abel had been well treated, and even received wages, if small ones.
“And now he’s dead. So who owns them?”
Bridger set the bowl aside on the night stand. “Abel was killed in a carriage accident a long time ago,” he said, saddened in a way he hadn’t been when he’d read Amalie’s account of the old man’s demise.
“What about Rosebud?” She gave him no opportunity to answer.
He sighed. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Your brother owns Rosebud.”
“No,” he answered. “My brother is dead, too.” He heaved another sigh. He owned Rosebud, and the other slaves still at Fairhaven, although there weren’t many left, according to Amalie’s letter. A number of them had fled the plantation in search of freedom or been sold by his father to raise badly needed money. Jubie was bound and determined to make him admit the truth. “Rosebud...belongs to me.”
His whole life, Bridger had never thought of Rosebud or Abel, or any of the other housemaids and field workers and gardeners and stable hands as property.
At last, Jubie turned from the window and faced him. “And you think that’s all right?” she asked. There was no sarcasm in her voice, no fury in her bearing, only an ancient resignation. “That some full-growed woman belongs to you, like that little dog down there in the yard belongs to Rachel?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think it’s right.”
“Then why you willing to fight so nothing will change?” Jubie asked, aggrieved.
“I’m fighting,” he answered quietly, “to protect my family’s land.”
She frowned at his response.
“Slavery is indefensible,” Bridger continued. “I’m not in this war to preserve it. I’m in this war because the South is my home, and it’s a home worth fighting for. Furthermore, vast sections of it are as beautiful as the Garden of Eden to me, maybe more so.”
He paused. “Win or lose, when this war is over, I plan to free my...the slaves at Fairhaven.”
Jubie collected the bowl of soup, half-empty now. She was no longer meeting his eyes.
The dog and the child could be heard bounding up the stairs, one in pursuit of the other, it seemed.
Jubie smiled slightly, in spite of herself. “That child,” she murmured.
Rachel was laughing again. “Sweet Girl!” she cried. “You come back here right now!”
The dog darted into the room, a small brown-and-white bullet of furry disobedience, and bounded onto the bed, landing square in the middle of Bridger’s chest.
The pain flared, ferocious, but he looped his good arm around the wriggling, muscular little form. Next thing he knew the dog was licking his face.
Jubie slipped out, bowl in hand, replaced by Rachel.
Caroline rushed in behind her daughter. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
Bridger ruffled the dog’s ears, enjoying the animal’s eager affection. “Now where did you come from?” he asked Sweet Girl.
“A traveling peddler brought her!” Rachel cried. “Mr. Splott. She’s mine now because Captain McBride sent her.”
Bridger glanced at Caroline, noting the pinkish glow in her cheeks.
She shook her head, as if in reply to the question he hadn’t asked. “Rogan isn’t here,” she said. “He sent Sweet Girl to us, by way of Mr. Splott, who happened to be heading in this direction.” A sigh. “So very thoughtful of him.”
There it was again—she’d said “Rogan,” not “Captain McBride.”
“I don’t suppose Rogan sent any message to me?”
Somewhat to his surprise, Caroline reached into an apron pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. “As a matter of fact, he did,” she said, handing a letter to him.
Caroline looked so tired, Bridger wished he could put his arms around her, smooth down her hair, promise her that nothing bad would ever happen again, not to her or Rachel or the little dog.
But he could not allow himself to care for this woman for several reasons, the foremost being his best friend’s interest in her. He knew Rogan was the kind of person willing to wait out Caroline’s mourning period, to court her slowly, carefully and mostly from a distance, if that was his intent. He had another not insignificant advantage—Rogan and Caroline were on the same side. Both Northerners, both committed to the Union cause.
Bridger, in stark contrast, represented the enemy, and Bridger knew his mere presence bruised the widow’s good Yankee conscience. He had nothing to offer her, in his current circumstances, anyway; he knew that what Caroline wanted most would be to have her husband back. The second, he felt sure, was his departure.
“Are you in pain?” she asked.
Bridger hadn’t
expected that particular question. “I’m all right,” he said, although he was hurting badly, but he was a pragmatic man, beneath his somewhat reckless veneer. All things considered, he was far luckier than other wounded men; he was alive, in possession of all his limbs and, presumably, his sanity. He could see and hear, and soon he would be ambulatory again.
“My grandmother left a small supply of laudanum,” Caroline ventured, almost shyly. “I could give you some, if you’re suffering.”
He smiled, shook his head. “Thank you, Caroline,” he said. “I’m grateful for the offer, but I don’t need it.” He paused. “That said, if you happen to have any whiskey on hand, I could make good use of it.”
She blushed, much to his delight. “Honestly,” she said, almost sighing the word.
And that was the end of the conversation.
A moment later, the door was shut and Bridger was alone.
After a full minute of wishing Caroline had stayed, he picked up the message from Rogan, which consisted of a single sheet of heavy paper, sealed with plain beeswax.
No fancy crest for Captain McBride, Bridger noted. Rogan had simply tilted a candle and pressed his thumb into the spill.
He turned the paper over, noted that it had been addressed to “My friend, in care of Mrs. Jacob Hammond, Hammond Farm, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.”
Finally, he broke the seal, unfolded the page. Twenty dollars in Federal currency, a fortune, even for a Yankee lawyer, fell onto the blanket.
Bridger ignored it for the moment and read.
I hope you are on the mend. By now, Mrs. Hammond will have given you the uniform and boots you will require, along with a letter, which I found, unopened, on your person, and retained. Except for your sidearm and sword, there were no other belongings in evidence. The sword was left behind, for reasons of expediency, and I gave the pistol into Enoch Flynn’s keeping, until such time as you may require its return. I trust you will consider past favors if called upon to make use of it in the future—and that you will remember my deep personal regard for the lady of the house. Until better, happier days, R.
The Yankee Widow Page 25