At least, most of the time she couldn’t.
Jacob would head for the stream, strip off his soiled clothing, rinse himself in the water, and lie naked in the tall grass until he was dry enough to get dressed again. He almost invariably came back to Caroline with finger-combed hair and spiky eyelashes, smelling of fresh air, full of mischief, and damnably certain that the little woman had seen the error of her ways and would thereafter remember her place.
It wasn’t that he was harsh or brutal, as so many husbands were, nor was he parsimonious. No, Jacob was kind and good-natured, and Caroline had appreciated those qualities, but she would have preferred an all-out shouting match to Jacob’s way of dismissing her ideas as passing aberrations, typical of the female mind. Thinking, after all, was a man’s sphere. No need to tax her poor little brain.
Caroline felt heat climb from her neck to her cheeks, just remembering how she’d acquiesced so readily, only to seethe behind her sweet, wifely smile, thinking of all the things she ought to say to Jacob, but couldn’t.
She might have reminded him, for instance, that she was not stupid, that, indeed, she’d been raised by intelligent and fairly progressive grandparents and educated accordingly. She might have pointed out that, while she never plowed or dug postholes as he did, she cleaned the house, tended the garden, milked the cow, fed the chickens and gathered their eggs, hauled water from the well, chopped and carried firewood, cooked three hearty meals every day of her life, did the wash and a host of other things.
She had never turned from him in their marriage bed, even when fatigue and disappointment and heartache had drained away any possibility of ardor. No, she had received her husband, welcomed him with all the grace she could muster, and never uttered a word of complaint.
She had been a good wife to Jacob, and an excellent mother to their child.
No reasonable man—and Jacob had been a reasonable man—could have refuted any of these claims. If she’d had the courage to speak up...
What had she been afraid of? Jacob wouldn’t have struck her, wouldn’t have cast her out into a blizzard, like some feckless heroine in a bad play, penniless and dressed in rags. He had loved her, in his steady, predictable way. And yes, she’d loved him. But for whatever reason, she hadn’t loved him with the kind of respectful maturity that would have allowed her to challenge him.
Oh, the shining clarity of hindsight.
If she had challenged him, he would have sulked for a while, yes. When Jacob was angry or worried, and such states were rare due to his inherently even disposition, his thoughts turned inward, and he needed time to brood over things, walk a mental labyrinth until he found the center, and some solution he could carry back to the ordinary world when he emerged. Almost invariably, he came out of these moods restored to his normal affable certainty and blithe confidence in the rightness of his beliefs.
Had Caroline persisted, after any one of these returns, still determined to make her point, Jacob would have been surprised at first, then displeased. Become sullen again. Eventually, though, if she had stood her ground, she knew he would have listened.
Where some things were concerned, he would never have agreed, but that didn’t matter. She hadn’t needed agreement.
She’d needed to be heard, to feel visible, seen as a whole person.
Instead, she’d sometimes felt like the faint and wavering reflection of the person Jacob believed she ought to be.
With Bridger, she had substance and fire. She was present, solid, alive.
Rogan, too, saw her as a flesh-and-blood woman. And although she didn’t know him as well as she did Bridger, she was aware of his good looks, his unfaltering masculinity and his intelligence.
She’d thought, even before Bridger’s oblique reference to him in the note, that Rogan McBride might court her in earnest, as soon as propriety allowed. Furthermore, he would make an excellent husband and be a devoted stepfather to Rachel. So she was surprised that he’d been so formal in that first letter he wrote.
Of the two, Rogan seemed the wiser choice. He shared her belief that the Union must be preserved, for one thing, while Bridger had done—and would continue to do—his utmost to aid in the sundering of one nation into two.
Marriage to Rogan would open a new world to Caroline; he’d written of his life in New York City, the one he meant to return to after the war, and although he hadn’t boasted, she knew he’d been successful in his law practice. He had aspirations, plans, goals, had seriously considered running for public office after his discharge.
With Rogan, she would meet a wide variety of fascinating people, live in a comfortable home and enjoy a stimulating environment—the bustle of city streets and the clatter of passing trolley cars, vast libraries, museums and theaters and fine restaurants.
Strange, Caroline thought, as she gathered her sleepy child into her arms, there in the kitchen house, and murmured a summons to the dog, that when Jacob was alive, she had resisted his dreams of travel. She had loved the farm, never wanted to leave it, even for a few weeks or months.
It was the best place to be, green and fertile, peaceful and quiet.
Back then, of course, there had been no war, no tents in her side yard with grievously wounded men inside, lying on flimsy cots, weeping, groaning, crying out for relief from their terrible pain and fear. Dying.
Back then, there’d been no dead soldiers buried there, flung into shallow graves and hastily covered, only to be exhumed and carried away in wagons. No slave catcher’s carcass to hide, no sad horse returning over and over again, in search of his master, no matter how many times Enoch had turned him loose.
Caroline loved the farm, as before, but she no longer felt bound to it.
She opened the door to the darkness and chill of an autumn night and stepped out, her right arm around Rachel, holding a flickering lantern in her left hand. Sweet Girl walked slightly ahead, sniffing the ground.
The bill of sale, with Bridger’s note scribbled on the back, was tucked into her apron pocket, although it might as well have been resting against her bare skin, the way it pulsed in her awareness.
Bridger. He had spoken of suitors in his brief missive, as if there would be dozens of them pounding at her front door as soon as her year of mourning Jacob had come to a respectable conclusion. As she carried her daughter toward the house, she smiled a little, to think he had so much confidence in her womanly appeal.
She reached the house, turned the knob and let Sweet Girl inside before following with Rachel. Thoughts of Bridger and the note stayed with her, tired as she was.
He had asked her to wait for him, and that could only mean one thing. He meant to make some sort of proposal, perhaps marriage, perhaps something else entirely.
Caroline extinguished the lantern and set it down; she knew the house so well, she didn’t need light to find her way.
Bridger had said it himself—he was a rake.
What if he planned to make her his mistress, rather than his wife?
A hot little thrill wove itself through her, even as she carried Rachel up the stairs, Sweet Girl at her heels. Although she would never be any man’s kept woman, not even Bridger Winslow’s, the idea wasn’t without a certain daring appeal. In fact, it sparked scandalously delicious images of naked bodies entangled on starched white sheets and of windows open to sultry nights and the scents of magnolia blossoms, of wild, searing passions...
Caroline brought herself up short.
For heaven’s sake! What was she doing, allowing her mind to wander like this? She was a Pennsylvania farmer’s widow, with a daughter to bring up, not a courtesan in some decadent foreign court. And if she ever took a second husband, he wasn’t likely to be either Bridger or Rogan, but someone she’d known for years, a veteran just home from the war. Another farmer, she thought glumly, a near neighbor, wanting to extend his property lines.
She took Rach
el into her tidy little room, undressed her, helped her into her nightclothes. She washed the child’s face and hands, over murmured protests, and insisted the little girl brush her teeth and use the chamber pot.
The instant Rachel was tucked up in bed, she fell asleep.
Sweet Girl, bolder now, jumped onto the mattress and nestled at Rachel’s feet.
Caroline stood, looking down at her daughter, loving her so much that she almost couldn’t bear it. She wanted everything for Rachel—health and happiness, of course, but more, as well. A good education, travels to interesting places near and far, a prosperous life. Eventually, a husband she loved and who loved her in return. Boisterous, sturdy children, thriving from the first breath they drew.
And more still. She wanted Rachel to be a responsible citizen when she became an adult, with all the rights the Constitution currently afforded white men but had clearly promised to everyone, regardless of sex or race, of religion or no religion at all.
Yes.
If she lived to see her daughter so blessed, her country so blessed, she would be satisfied. Content with her own lot, whether she married again or not.
For now, she would dedicate herself to raising Rachel to be strong and kind, to love wisely, to stand firm in the face of adversity and opposition, unafraid to be her truest and best self.
Later, there would be choices she, Caroline, must make. Perhaps many of them.
And if she did decide to take a husband, who would he be? Bridger or Rogan or another man altogether? A local farmer, as she’d thought a few minutes ago?
Fortunately, she didn’t have to decide anything tonight or tomorrow or next week. There was plenty of time; she would wait and work, love her daughter and watch destiny unfold in its own way, without trying to influence the course it took.
She bent to place a light kiss on Rachel’s tiny, smooth forehead. “Good night, my dearest love,” she whispered. “Sweet dreams.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Rachel replied, snuggling deeper into the softness of her familiar bed, perhaps already dreaming.
Caroline straightened, stood watch for another minute or so, offering silent, wordless prayers, and then turned to walk softly away, into the corridor and on to her own room.
She shed her daylight worries as she undressed, washed, donned a nightgown and got into bed. Tonight, she decided, she, too, would dream, not of battles and broken bodies, not of thundering cannon and shrieks of pain, but of ordinary pleasures—the scents of spring grass and freshly tilled earth, the chirping of birds on hidden branches festooned with pink and white blossoms, more fragrant than any perfume, the billowing dance of sheets pegged to the clothesline on a windy day, the rhythm of rain upon a sturdy roof, the sheen of sunlight on the rust-red feathers of her laying hens.
Soothed, Caroline closed her eyes and drifted smoothly into her dreams.
29
National Cemetery, Gettysburg
Thursday, November 19, 1863
Caroline
The day was finally here.
Caroline and Enoch had been waiting for this—the consecration of the National Cemetery—ever since they’d heard about it in town and read about it in the Compiler.
To say that she was excited at the prospect of seeing and hearing the president was—as she told Geneva when they met in town that morning—an understatement. He and a number of other speakers, musicians and honored guests would be there to consecrate the new cemetery, where many of the Union soldiers who’d died at Gettysburg would be interred. And if Caroline revered anyone in this world, it was Abraham Lincoln.
She, Enoch, Jubie and the children began by visiting Geneva’s house, where they enjoyed an early lunch, then made their way south along Baltimore Street. President Lincoln had arrived the day before, staying at the home of Mr. David Wills, who’d done so much to ensure the creation of the cemetery.
Caroline and Enoch quietly discussed Cemetery Hill and what had happened there in July; they decided it was fitting that Lincoln would be speaking from a stand on the Hill itself. As they joined the crowd shortly before noon—already numbering in the thousands—they positioned themselves near a sheltering tree. They were all grateful today’s weather was mild. Gideon was asleep in Jubie’s arms, while Rachel leaned against her mother; the child’s unusual silence suggested she recognized at least something of the sacred nature of this event.
The ceremony began with music and a prayer, and was followed by the Honorable Edward Everett’s oration. Widely considered one of the most accomplished speakers of the day, he spoke for two hours—never referring to notes, moving freely across the platform. Caroline was impressed by the skill of his speech, although a little wearied by its length. And she was impressed by the respectful quiet of the audience.
Applause. A hymn specially composed and written for the consecration. Then...
Abraham Lincoln stepped onto the stand, tall, gaunt, rather pale, formally dressed. He removed a piece of paper from his pocket—and began to read.
“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”
Caroline glanced over at Enoch, taking his turn holding the baby, and at Jubie with her arms around Rachel, and saw tears in their eyes.
“Now we are engaged in a great civil war...” Caroline clasped her grandmother’s hand, and she knew that, like everyone in the large audience, they were both absorbing every word.
After exactly two minutes, the speech was finished, ending with the words:
“...that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
Two minutes she somehow knew would have a centuries-long impact, a meaning that would define the future of their country. Once this war was over... Once the Union prevailed. And that would happen.
There was an astounded silence, a reverent hush, eventually overtaken by applause. Geneva, Jubie, Enoch, Caroline—they all looked at each other, smiling. Caroline planned to make sure Rachel knew she’d been present at such a historic event.
The ceremony concluded with another hymn and a benediction, and people began to leave in an orderly fashion. Enoch insisted on going to Geneva’s house to fetch the wagon; when he returned, he brought her home and then they went on to Hammond Farm. No one spoke. Caroline felt that anything she might’ve said would have broken the mood, the almost holy bond created by Lincoln’s words.
Once home, she and Jubie quickly prepared supper—a simple meal of potatoes, corn and fried chicken. They all retired soon after. Despite having slept that day, Rachel fell asleep easily. Sweet Girl, fed much later than usual but now satiated, lay beside her bed.
Caroline sat at the desk in her own room, took up her pen and began to write.
Dear Jacob,
Today I learned what this was all for...
30
Maryland
November 30, 1864
Bridger
A squat tallow candle burned low on the sill of a narrow and grimy window in the back room of O’Malley’s Tavern, a dim beacon on a cool, moonless night.
Bridger sat with his feet up in the empty, abandoned place, a cheroot between his teeth, and waited, thirsty for a shot of whiskey but resigned to an ongoing state of sobriety, since every bottle on the shelves up front had long since been poured down the gullets of no-accounts or used for target practice.
The whole building listed to the left, floors included, and huge cobwebs dangled from the broken ceilings, like bunting at a gathering of dead politicians fixing to orate, and the smell of rats, dust and bird shit was pungent, but he’d known worse.
Far worse.
He sighed, drew
on the cheroot and blew out smoke, listened to the creaks and skitterings, the not-quite-audible echoes of times gone by—whores whispering false promises upstairs in their seedy cribs, the tinny clink of the rotting piano near the bar, the whining of sorry drunks bending the bartender’s ear with their myriad and sodden sorrows.
God save bartenders everywhere, he thought.
Outside in the darkness, Orion, the last of Fairhaven’s fine stallions, nickered, a quiet, curious sound.
Bridger lowered his feet to the dissolving floorboards and stood, dropping the cheroot and grinding it out with the toe of one boot as he took his pistol from the table and moved noiselessly to the door.
There, he heard them, the hoofbeats of a lone horse, moving at a brisk canter along the hard-packed dirt of the nearby road.
He smiled, shoved the pistol into his belt, at the small of his back. He wouldn’t need it if the rider was the one he expected, but he wanted it within easy reach if some thieving renegade had caught sight of the candle flame and decided to investigate.
Orion tossed his massive head, set his bridle fittings a-jingle.
“Quiet,” Bridger commanded. Except for a small splash of white on his left flank, the stallion was blacker than the back of a mouse hole in a root cellar, virtually invisible in the dark, but this horse would raise three kinds of hell if he turned restless.
There was no moon that night—Bridger had chosen the date for that reason, among others—but he recognized his old friend anyhow, by the set of his shoulders and the way he sat his horse, a big gray, graceful as a spirit floating through a graveyard.
Rogan drew back on the reins, dismounted. Like Bridger, he wore plain trousers, a dark shirt and hat pulled low, so the brim cast a shadow over his face.
The Yankee Widow Page 36