The count was twenty-eight, and Enoch held his breath, waited for some earnest soul to call out that they had one too many bodies, but no one did.
These men were tired, sweating in the heat, their palms and the skin on their fingers raw from gripping the handles of shovels. Several looked sick enough to collapse in their boot prints, might have done just that, if it wouldn’t have meant riding back to camp on a pile of dead bodies.
“We’ve got them all, then,” Morris told Baylor.
“You took a count?”
“I did.” He paused. “And I believe you’re right, sir. The unnamed one is probably a scout or such.”
“Good enough.” Baylor stood in his stirrups, stretching his legs, turning his gaze toward the farmhouse, although it couldn’t be seen from that field.
I wouldn’t like to kill you, Enoch told him silently, much as you probably need killing. But I will do it if I must.
Strangely, Baylor swung his head around, as if Enoch’s unspoken warning had somehow reached him.
He stared.
Enoch stared back.
“We’ve got a long way to go,” Morris said in a level voice that carried nonetheless. “And there’s rain coming on.”
Everyone looked at the sky then, including Enoch. Sure enough, there were dark clouds hovering over the horizon, at the edge of all that glaring blue, churning like the stomachs of monsters, digesting things consumed.
It was almost as if the young corporal had conjured up those clouds...
Baylor gave the order to move out, and men scrambled into the wagon boxes, released brake levers, took the reins in their hands. The soldiers all mounted their horses, and the slow, rattling exodus began.
Enoch looked around him, studying all those oblong ruptures in the earth, thinking they made for a grim parody of the Judgment.
He turned his face upward, closed his eyes and heaved a sigh that seemed to rise from the soles of his feet. When the last day came, when every clock in the world just quit ticking, all at once, forever stilled, when the sky fractured like thin glass and legions of avenging angels busted through and commenced to sorting the wheat from the chaff, he, who’d taken a man’s life, would surely be among those cast into the fiery pit.
It was only right, he decided, to look straight into the face of heaven, invisible though it was, and voice his prayer out loud. Any other way might seem disrespectful.
“I did what I had to do, Lord,” he said, as the first warm drops of rain splashed his forehead and his cheeks and the hollow of his throat. “And I can’t say I repent of it now, so I reckon there’s no sense asking Your forgiveness yet.” He passed a few minutes in sorrowful regret, but not because he’d done that slave catcher in like he had. No, sir. He’d never be sorry for that.
He’d be plenty sorry, though, not to go to Glory when his earthly life was over. Never to look upon his mama’s glowing face, nor those of young Jacob and his good father and mother and Tillie Mae and all the other folks, dark and light, who’d treated him with decency and varying degrees of kindness. He would miss out on the gathering of the saints, all that singing and blowing of horns and shouting of hallelujahs, never lay eyes on the Lamb of God nor drink of the living waters.
It was a high price to pay, that was for sure, but Jubie was alive and she was as free as she could be, the way things stood. As for the baby boy, well, he might not be the fruit of Enoch’s own loins, but the little mite had taken root in his heart.
Gideon would have a place to set down his feet and grow.
For Enoch Flynn, that was enough.
28
Hammond Farm
October 29, 1863
Caroline
As promised, Caroline wrote Rogan at the address he’d given her, a law office in the city of New York. She told him Bridger had gone on his way, although it was more than a week before she was able to collect herself enough to put pen to paper. She mentioned Rachel, said the child was well and very fond of Sweet Girl, who was also well, and she related the birth of Jubie’s baby, concluding her letter with a brief account of the day the soldiers came to fetch their dead, leaving out the ordeal it cost her.
She signed the missive “Yours very truly, Caroline Hammond,” a sort of compromise between the stiff formality of “Regards, Mrs. Jacob Hammond” and the too-familiar, “Warmly, Caroline.”
Enoch had taken the slim envelope to town and posted it, and Caroline put Rogan and Bridger out of her mind, although one or the other of them, and sometimes both, crept in now and then, especially on nights she was too tired to sleep, after a day of harvesting and preserving vegetables from her garden and fruit from the orchard. With baby Gideon content in his sling against his mother’s bosom, Jubie worked alongside Caroline, while Enoch labored to bring in the crops, with the help of George McPhee and several of the other neighboring farmers.
Many had nothing to harvest, since their own fields had been trampled or stripped clean by hungry armies, and they were happy to lend a hand to their more fortunate neighbors, in return for a share to sell or feed their families and their livestock over the coming winter.
Caroline had once sold eggs, milk, cream and butter to people from town; now, she gave away all but what she needed for Rachel, Grandmother and herself, and for Enoch and Jubie, of course. Others did the same, in the way of neighbors everywhere and, gradually, the people of Gettysburg and the surrounding area began to find their way.
The last weeks prior to this had passed quickly, with visits to town to see Geneva, as well as Ladies’ Aid friends. The place had not returned to normal yet; Caroline suspected that might take years. By now, the dead had been buried and in some cases already exhumed to be returned to their families; the wounded had almost all been taken home. But the damage to houses—pockmarked with bullets—remained, a reminder far into the future of what had happened here. That, and the damage to people’s hearts and minds...
Alas, the land would be a long time recovering; there were still bodies to be disinterred in town and in the nearby fields, identified and sent home to grieving friends and families. Others were laid to quiet rest in the national cemetery, land set aside, by order of President Lincoln and members of his administration, for the purpose.
The Confederate dead were placed in that same hallowed ground, though apart from those who had perished in defense of the Union, on the assumption that, when peace came at last, they, too, would go home.
Few begrudged them this temporary rest; no person of good will could look upon the shattered bodies of earnest men, impetuous youths and, in many cases, mere children, and feel hatred. Each was a sorrow to someone, near or far, or would be, when the dreadful news came.
Mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, wives and sweethearts, be they Union or Confederate, were alike in their hearts. They all loved their sons, brothers and husbands, all prayed for their safe return, and all wept the same salty tears when every hope was lost except one—that their dear Billy or Johnny, though perished, might be found and sent back to them, to be given a Christian burial in a place near enough to visit. There must be a proper marker, too, so he would be remembered.
One crisp day, in late October, when the harvest was over, Enoch came back from town with a letter.
He found Jubie and Caroline in the main house, seated near the fireplace in companionable silence, Caroline sewing, Jubie nursing her baby. Rachel sat close by on the floor, rolling a ball for Sweet Girl to scramble after and retrieve.
“There’s a letter that’s come for me,” Enoch said, with a note of wonder in his voice. “I’ve never got any mail before, except from Jacob.”
Caroline said nothing, but her hands went still, settling into her lap as if they’d made the decision on their own.
“Who’d be writing to you, Mister-man?” Jubie asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” Enoch replied. He
held a thick envelope in his gloved hands, which were trembling ever so slightly. “It’s come from down South, though—got no stamp, just a mark there in that corner.”
Caroline’s heart, swathed in purposeful indifference all these months, gave a small, painful leap.
“Well, open the thing,” Jubie said. “Sit down here next to me and read it!”
Enoch dropped onto the chair without even taking off his coat, hat and gloves.
His big hands were awkward as he broke the seal, lifted the heavy flap and brought out a sheaf of paper, folded in thirds. He made a husky sound that might have been a laugh, then unfolded the document and smoothed it against his thigh.
“Lord have mercy,” he muttered. “These are your emancipation papers, Jubie. It was Bridger—Captain Winslow who sent them.”
Jubie’s response was a stunned whisper. “Are they real? This ain’t no trick? No slave catchers gonna come for me and Gideon?”
“No more slave catchers will come,” Enoch confirmed without looking up from the papers. “You’re free, Jubie, and this is the proof.” He began flipping rapidly through the pages.
“Nobody be chasing me no more?” Jubie asked with breathless disbelief. “How can that be? Miz Templeton, she’s the kind to hunt me till I drop!”
Caroline’s heart seemed to wedge itself in her throat, rendering speech impossible.
And that was a good thing. Yes, she was glad for Jubie, for Enoch and the baby, too. So glad. She was staggered by the generosity of what Bridger had done, and she was truly grateful to him.
Now the realization came, sudden and smarting like a slap.
She was jealous. Jealous that there’d been no letter for her.
The documents Enoch and Jubie were poring over with such astonished delight were indeed the stuff of miracles. Heaven alone knew how they had gotten through without being lost or confiscated or simply thrown away, or what risks Bridger had taken, not only to secure them in the first place, but to send them from behind Confederate lines.
Certainly, correspondence passed between North and South, much of it probably by courier, under military guard.
Mrs. Lincoln, born in the South, had brothers fighting for the Confederacy and no doubt corresponded with them on a regular basis. Why, she’d even entertained one of her Southern sisters-in-law in the White House, scandalizing a great many loyal Unionists.
Yes, Mrs. Lincoln could send and receive mail with impunity, but then, she was Mrs. Lincoln. The wife of the President of the United States of America, which should, to Caroline’s mind, have been called the Disunited States, at least for the time being.
“Is there any other letter in there?” Jubie asked. “How you know it was Captain Winslow who sent them, if there’s no letter?”
Enoch cleared his throat. “There is no letter,” he said diplomatically. “His signature is here, so I believe that’s proof enough as to who sent this. And there’s a bill of sale that’s signed, too.”
“A bill of sale?” Jubie cried, waking the baby and causing him to whimper and then squall. “He bought me from Miz Templeton? Doesn’t that mean he owns me now?”
“No,” Enoch replied, very gently. “Bridger had these papers drawn up, and then he signed them, before witnesses. I don’t know what else the man could have done to get the point across.”
Jubie subsided a little, standing now, stroking Gideon’s thick head of hair and rocking him from side to side. “Then why’d he put that bill of sale in there?”
“He probably figured we might need it sometime,” Enoch said. “Anyhow, Bridger didn’t pay in money. He gave that woman a blooded stallion, probably a fine one. What matters here is that you’re free, and we’ve got Bridger Winslow to thank for it.”
“Are you going to stay here for good, Miss Jubie?” Rachel asked softly, on her tiptoes to admire the baby in Jubie’s arms.
Jubie turned her head, looked fondly at the child. Said in a tender voice, “We’re gonna stay right here as long as I’m welcome, little one.” Then, over Rachel’s head, Jubie’s eyes met Caroline’s, asking a silent question.
“Of course you’re always welcome, Jubie!” Caroline said. “This is Enoch’s home, and now it’s yours and Gideon’s, too.”
Enoch’s eyes glistened in October’s early twilight and, like Jubie, he spoke without words. Thank you.
Caroline smiled, rose from her chair and set her mending aside. “Where has the time gone?” she asked brightly. “Supper ought to be on the table by now, especially tonight, when we have so much to celebrate. And I haven’t even started it.”
Enoch stood as well. “You’ll need firewood, Missus,” he said. “I’ll fetch it for you.”
“I’ll help you with the supper fixin’s soon as I’m done nursing Gideon,” Jubie offered.
“You will do no such thing,” Caroline told her. “You, my friend, are the guest of honor tonight. And tomorrow, you shall have a cake to celebrate.”
“With sugar icing?” Rachel asked eagerly, on her tiptoes again.
“With sugar icing,” Caroline said. Then she headed to the kitchen house to make their meal.
Sometime later, with supper over and the dishes washed and dried and put back on the shelves, Enoch lit a lantern, draped his coat around Jubie and the baby and led his little family home.
By then, Rachel was dozing in her chair, Sweet Girl at her feet.
Caroline was about to lift the child into her arms, carry her to the house and get her ready for bed when she noticed a small sheet of paper lying on the table. She was sure it hadn’t been there before; she’d wiped the surface clean after the plates were cleared.
With a frown, she picked the paper up, recognized it as the bill of sale Bridger had enclosed with Jubie’s emancipation papers. Enoch must have forgotten it, she decided, although that seemed unlikely, given its importance. When she turned it over, she saw writing on the back, just a few lines, slanted to the right and somehow hurried, as if they’d been scrawled in haste.
Her name leaped up at her as she bent to retrieve the slip.
She straightened and began to read.
Caroline, Bridger had written, I know you need to mourn Jacob, and I will respect your wishes in all ways. In due time, you will have suitors; I know of at least one who will most likely ask for your hand at the first decent opportunity. You owe me nothing, but I am not one to stand on ceremony, so will ask what I must. Wait for me, Caroline. I have things to say to you. If, after hearing me out, you send me away, I will go. Bridger.
Caroline read the note a second time, then a third, before tears obscured the words. Then, she held the page to her breast, pressing it close, as if to physically absorb what it said.
Enoch had not forgotten anything, of course. He had seen that there was a message written on the back of the bill of sale while he was handling the other papers, and made sure Caroline had a chance to read it in relative privacy.
Did Enoch know what the note said? Almost certainly.
He would have taken it in whole before realizing it was meant for someone else. And why not? It had been enclosed with correspondence directed to him.
He’d probably felt a certain chagrin, just the same, as if he’d been prying, but the fact was, Enoch did not read the way most people did.
Once, on a quiet afternoon in deep winter, the two of them sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen house table with a lamp lit to push back the shadows, Caroline composing a letter to Jacob, Enoch bent over a book, she’d noticed how rapidly he turned the pages.
He’d admitted, gruffly modest and after much prodding on Caroline’s part, that he didn’t read word by word; when he looked at a newspaper article or a page in a book, whole blocks of print jumped out at him, all of a piece. He’d seemed almost embarrassed by this propensity, even unnerved, as though it were magic of uncertain origin. Some kind of hex or
spell, perhaps. He didn’t know why it happened like that, he’d told Caroline. Old Missus had begun teaching him his letters when he’d been at Hammond Farm long enough to settle in, and once he could fit them together into words, it was as if they just took over from there.
Caroline had told Enoch he’d been blessed with a rare kind of intelligence, a true and precious gift, and he’d been so flustered by the compliment that he’d closed his book, offered some excuse about needing to chop more firewood and fled the kitchen house.
She’d been sparing in her praise after that because of Enoch’s discomfort, but it hadn’t been easy. He built wonderful things, such as cabinets and blanket chests and toys for Rachel, and Caroline dared not raise a fuss, no matter how delighted she was. She’d had to be content with “thank you” and “that’s fine.”
Enoch. Dear, generous, considerate Enoch.
He knew something of her exchanges with their inconvenient guest; of course he did. He’d walked into the sick room that night and seen Bridger kissing her, and her kissing Bridger right back. He must have overheard at least one of their disagreements, maybe even made the inevitable comparison—she and Jacob had never raised their voices to each other, in public or in private.
If she’d thought of it at all, Caroline suspected she’d been secretly prideful about the general lack of discord in her marriage. Any time she and Jacob were at odds, which was not often, she had usually retreated into quiet reflection, while he tended to remove himself to some distant part of the farm and, hours later, when he had expended his frustration through hard work, he returned, drenched in sweat and covered in field dirt, whistling some tuneless ditty and grinning to himself.
Acting as though nothing was amiss.
For him, that was the case. He’d find Caroline, usually in the kitchen house, and stand in the doorway, asking for clean clothes, stating reasonably that he wouldn’t mind fetching them for himself, except that would mean tracking up Caroline’s clean floors, wouldn’t it?
Still quiet, Caroline would leave off kneading bread or peeling potatoes or whatever else she happened to be doing, go into the main house and up the stairs to their bedroom to get Jacob a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers, bring them to him in the yard. He’d accept the neatly folded garments with a smile so ingenuous that Caroline could not sustain her anger.
The Yankee Widow Page 35