by Marian Wells
Beth thought about Olivia. “She said God wants to help us live. I thought that was going to happen with Mike, but he wouldn’t marry me because of God. So God isn’t interested in me.”
Impatiently she jumped to her feet as the bitter memory of that day surged over her. “I was terribly angry at Mike,” she whispered. “It was horrible to be left wearing a wedding gown with no groom.” Her cheeks flushed hot with remembered shame.
Her thoughts ran on, and she spoke them aloud. “If I hadn’t been in a rage over Mike, I’d never have listened to Cynthia—or would I? She made it sound fun and daring, and I didn’t think it through. It was another lark, like marrying Mike.”
With shaking hands she pressed her eyes closed and saw Mike’s face, twisted in agony. Surprised, she whispered, “He really cared! I can’t believe he could care that much and still not marry me. Why did he say he couldn’t? I suppose I’m just not good enough.”
Beth fingered the Bible as it lay open on the table and thought of home. “Dear Mama, this is the only thing of yours that I have. Did this Bible mean something special to you?”
She pulled Olivia’s list from between the pages and flipped through the Bible until she found 1 Timothy 4:8, “‘But godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.’” She peered at the list. “That sounds like something Olivia said, but I don’t have it written here.”
She took up her pencil and quickly wrote, “Profitable, promise of that which is to come.” She leaned back and thought about the words, then glanced at the list. With a frown, she picked it up and studied it. Slowly she read:
Go back the way you should, J3, 16.
All things become new, when we get, R3, 23.
Difference between life and death, condemned, R6, 23.
Wages of death…
“Oh dear!” she gasped, “I’ve made a mess of this. It doesn’t make sense. How will I ever understand?”
She threw down the papers just as she heard a knock on the door. With her heart hammering, she froze. The second knock was followed by an urgent voice. “I know you’re in there; open the door.”
Beth looked around. It was nearly dark. She stuffed papers into the Bible, then ran nervous hands over her hair, and went to the door.
Swalling glared at her, a tight line around his mouth. “You were to have been at the concert nearly an hour ago. What happened?”
“Oh, dear!” she moaned. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Here, I’ll light a lamp. I was just thinking, and lost track of the time.”
“Forget the light.” He looked from the silken belt to the papers on the table. “I see you have the belt here, and this is the information. Tim and his bumbling couriers! Miss, I hope this is your last trip.”
He peered at the paper, glanced at the window, and stuffed it into in his pocket. “I’ll have to decode it later. Here’s a message for Stollen. Kindly deliver it to him on time,” he snapped as he headed out the door.
Beth huddled on the bed, shivering and angry at first, then finally trembling with fear. “Cynthia, even if they don’t hang women, I’ll never do this again.”
As the rising moon presented itself at her window, she pressed both hands to her empty stomach. Shaking her head, she muttered, “Right now I’d rather starve than risk seeing that man again.”
During the night Beth awakened with a word on her lips. She sat up. “Condemned. That verse said I was condemned already. How can that be? I haven’t done anything.” But she knew better even as she said the words. The guilt she carried would not leave her alone.
“Louisa,” she whispered, “I confess, I took all of your pretty things. I took your dresses, jewelry, even your shoes. I did it because you had so much and I didn’t have anything.”
But confession and repentance didn’t seem to help. “I might have read that verse all wrong,” she muttered. She groped for the Bible under the bed and went to light the lamp on the table.
Beth hunted for Olivia’s list, but it wasn’t there. After thumbing through the Bible again, she murmured, “Oh, I remember—it’s in John.”
She found it and read the words over and over. “If I believe, I’m not condemned, but I’m condemned if I don’t. What is the significance of believing? Olivia said repentance meant to go back and do the right thing.” Beth held the book tight and thought about Louisa’s clothes, the beautiful things she had stolen, the deception she had put over on those around her.
As she started to close the Bible, she saw the next verse: “‘For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.’” Beth chewed her finger and tried to remember the other verses Olivia had written on the paper.
“I wonder what I’ve done with those papers,” she murmured, thumbing through the pages of the Bible. Folded papers fell out. She spread them on the table and horror filled her. “I gave Mr. Swalling the wrong papers!” she breathed. “What shall I do? I’ve no idea how to contact him.”
There was nothing to do but wait. After breakfast she paced the room and wrung her hands. “I can’t go to you, Mr. Swalling. I don’t know your real name, and I don’t know where to find you. If you want these papers, you must come after them.”
She picked up the Bible and thumbed listlessly through it. “This is terrible,” she muttered. “It’s like being in prison; I can’t leave, and there’s nothing to do.”
She began to read. “‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’”
Beth looked at the ceiling and declared, “I did confess my sins, and You didn’t hear me.” There seemed to be nothing else to do except continue to read. She curled up in the chair pulled close to the window. “Olivia said John, but she also mentioned Romans and Timothy. I wish I had the list. Perhaps it doesn’t matter where I read.”
As the sun set, Beth discovered she wasn’t hungry. She lit the lamp and returned to the chair. “All day long I’ve read Olivia’s verses. I feel the words are piling up inside of me. God really does love us—me, but He’s demanding. He sounds like my father. I suppose I need to follow the rules, just like at home.”
When Beth crawled into bed, clear thoughts were taking shape in her mind. The first was that Mr. Swalling wasn’t coming. The second was a strange new fact. She didn’t want to deliver those papers to him. That thought was enough to bring her out of bed. She lit a candle, found the papers, and carefully tore them into tiny pieces. Amazed, she looked down at the pile of scraps and whispered, “I feel wonderful. Why?”
The final thought came after she returned to bed, staring into the darkness. “No I don’t feel wonderful; I feel wretched.” Olivia had talked about Jesus, about knowing God, being reconciled to Him, accepting salvation through Jesus Christ. Of not doing, but being. Beth tossed and punched her pillow.
Finally she sat up in bed and lifted her face toward the ceiling. “I did confess,” she said again. “You didn’t listen.” Then the words she had been reading fell into place in her mind, like the critical pieces of a difficult puzzle. “I have to confess to Louisa and take the clothes back to her. That’s repenting, which means I’ll become different. I’ll go the right way now. But what is the right way?” Why is this important? Why am I afraid of God? Suddenly exhausted, she fell back on her pillow and slept.
Early the next morning, she quickly packed her valise and carried it to the train station. “I want a ticket to Burton, Tennessee.”
The ticket agent pushed his cap back on his head and grinned at her. “Come back in a couple of weeks, and we’ll see what we can do. The tracks have been torn up that way.”
She chewed her lip. “Is it possible to get back into Washington?”
“You can go to Alexandria. Will that do?” She nodded and pulled out her ticket.
****
Mike whistled tunelessly, repeating the same monotonous notes. Captain Frazier came in
to the pilothouse and glanced at Mike. “Can’t be that bad, can it?”
“Guess it gets a little boring, running up and down the Mississippi, taking pot shots at these shaggy guerrillas.”
“Someone has to do it,” Frazier answered shortly. Then he grinned. “Aw, you’re wanting real action with all the glory. I’ll let you go talk to some of Grant’s men; it won’t be hard to change places with one of them.”
Mike nodded. “I sure never expected to see Grant push as hard as this. When Briggs was on board last night he said that Grant’s men jumped out of those transports and headed inland like they were going after apple pie. I guess it nearly scared the boots off Johnston’s men. Grant was almost to Jackson before Johnston began to move toward the Mississippi.”
Mike glanced at Frazier. “They told me this time Grant took his cue from the Confederates and lived off the land. His boys were doing well—ham and poultry, as well as all the vegetables and milk they needed.” He chuckled. “They say a plantation owner rode his mule into camp to complain to Grant that the fellows were robbing him blind. Grant looked him in the eye and said they weren’t his men, because if they were, they’d have taken his mule too.”
Frazier sobered. “It’s sad to see the state we’re all being reduced to—plundering, wasting, fighting not with dignity, but with a desperate need to survive no matter what. And they’re saying it’ll get worse.” He paused. “I came up to tell you we’ll go as far as Milliken’s Bend and then head back upstream.”
Mike nodded. “I heard there was action on the bend.”
“Yes. Kirby Smith was at it again. Fortunately two Negro regiments were sent to support the Iowa regiments; otherwise we’d have lost the post. The Rebels drove our men to the bank of the river. But with the new regiments and the aid of a gunboat, we managed to hold our position.”
Captain Frazier paced the cabin. “You know, last August, just after Lincoln decided the Negroes could serve in the army as well as the navy, the Confederate Army headquarters issued a directive saying the officer of any black troop would be treated as a felon and executed. God help us if it happens here. I did hear there were a number of Negro soldiers killed and some captured.”
As they passed Milliken’s Bend, Frazier took his binoculars to the window. Mike gazed at the lonely post. The Union flag was flying from the pole.
Suddenly Frazier dropped the field glasses. Mike heard his sharp exclamation and followed the direction of his pointing finger. “Turn the boat! Those aren’t our batteries, and they’re pointed at us.” He ran for the stairs.
As Mike leaned on the wheel, he saw a flash of fire and felt the shudder sweep the length of the boat. The steering was gone. He turned to shout at Frazier just as a shell crashed through the pilothouse. The boat swerved, and he fell.
Rudderless, the boat swept into the current and drifted toward the batteries. Vaguely Mike heard the guns below. They were still firing one blast after another as they approached the shore.
Still stunned by the blow, Mike pulled himself to the window and focused on the sight of gray coats flying over the sand hills as the gunboat drifted closer, her guns still booming.
There was a shout of alarm from below. The gunboat crashed against the abutments. Dazed, Mike tried to sit up. He looked down at his leg and saw the blood flowing.
“Mike!”
“Cap, I need a hand up here.” He grasped the window casing and tried to pull himself up, then sagged and fell, hitting his face against the rough boards.
Chapter 39
The pastel blossoms of spring had disappeared, replaced by vivid color and heavy perfume. All Vicksburg, from tree-lined avenues to walled gardens and stately buildings, was lush with summer. But Crystal found it impossible to reconcile this beauty with the threat which had driven her into taking sanctuary in Vicksburg, making her an unwilling prisoner of all the beauty.
Each day she walked the streets of Vicksburg. In the beginning she was driven by frustration and her frantic desire to be gone. Gradually this impatience was replaced by curiosity and loneliness.
Crystal grew fond of the lovely city on the Mississippi River. Often she walked to the top of the hill overlooking the river. One evening she discovered that her favorite spot was occupied by an elderly couple.
They turned at her approach. “Good evening, ma’am.” The gentleman bowed. “I’m Colonel Ethon, retired, and this is my wife, Mattie. We’ve seen you about the streets for the past month. Welcome to our fair city; are you enjoying your visit?”
“Yes,” she responded with a rueful smile, “although it is an enforced stay. I’m Mrs. Matthew Thomas; please call me Crystal. We have been living in the North, and I was on my way to New Orleans to visit my parents. Since the railways are immobilized, I’ve been a prisoner in your lovely city.”
“The North, huh?” he commented. “This must be very distressing to you. But I do believe General Pemberton is capable. Hopefully he will encourage this young scalawag Grant to retire gracefully.”
“I doubt that he shall,” Crystal murmured. “From what I hear, General Grant is a very determined man.”
Colonel Ethon nodded soberly. “With General Sherman working alongside, we Southerners have cause to shiver.”
“We want peace more than anything else.” Mattie searched Crystal’s face. “You’re from New Orleans; are you Creole?”
Crystal hesitated, thinking again of all the secrets hidden for so long. “Yes, my parents’ kin were some of the original settlers. French.”
“Your skin is dark; I suppose it’s to be expected that you’d prefer the North.”
“Don’t think that we hold color against anyone,” Colonel Ethon said. “But I must admit, it’s difficult to release our hold on the old life.”
“I can’t believe the North will be victor,” Mattie interjected, “but I have sympathy for the Negroes. Slavery is wrong, however—”
“It takes more than a handful of us to effect change,” Colonel Ethon finished. “I don’t expect either Vicksburg or the Confederacy to fall into Union hands. And I expect life to go on as it always has.”
Crystal turned toward the river. “It’s such a beautiful, peaceful scene; it’s nearly heart-wrenching to consider fighting here.” She faced the couple and added, “I’ve been enjoying the serenity. But I shudder when I recall all that’s going on just outside of Vicksburg. If only this could be solved without fighting.”
“But someone must give in order to have peace. The South won’t surrender their slaves, and as long as the abolitionists rule the North, slavery will continue to be a sore spot. Compromise is impossible.”
Mattie shook her head. “I refuse to be frightened by a possibility which doesn’t exist. I’ll cross my bridges only when necessary.”
“My dear,” Colonel Ethon said slowly, “the handwriting is on the wall. The North no longer seems inclined to give us our heart’s desires.”
****
Each day Crystal followed the news, and nearly every day brought change. One morning she opened her paper in the dining room. “So now the Southern railroads are gone.” She scanned the report. “General Sherman is moving like a scythe in a field of grain. He’s leveled trains and their tracks. Warehouses and army supply depots are gone. And General Grant is moving on Jackson.”
As she folded the paper, her throat tightened. The waiter standing beside her chair said, “The news isn’t good, is it ma’am?”
She touched her throat and shook her head. “I wonder what will become of us all?”
As the days passed, food supplies became limited, and tension within Vicksburg grew. Crystal watched housewives leave the grocer with worried frowns. The daily newspaper continued to be optimistic, but it decreased in size each week.
One May day the newspaper carried the story of General Pemberton’s defeat at Champion Hill, and later that day he entered the city with the remnant of his army. Crystal was on the street when they arrived.
Saddened by their shame and d
efeat, she turned away, nearly colliding with the woman at her side. Looking at Crystal, the woman dabbed at tears on her face and murmured, “Is this what war means? Never did I dream of seeing such men. Beaten into exhaustion, worn down to nothing. They are barefoot, gaunt, starved. How can they keep a foot under themselves?” Without answering, Crystal rushed to her hotel.
Later Crystal began to sense that the Union forces had launched an attack on Vicksburg which showed no signs of being abandoned. Sporadic gunfire had been replaced by constant bombardment. The newspaper admitted that Grant’s army surrounded the city from the east, while Union gunboats and mortar-boats unceasingly attacked from the river.
The nights were quiet, but each day the gunfire was renewed at dawn. No longer was it safe to admire the sunset over the river from the highest bluff. The women and children had been ordered to stay off the streets during the day. While the dismal reports indicated neither army would yield, casualties were growing on each side.
As the worried people of Vicksburg huddled in their damaged homes, the unrelenting fighting continued. General Pemberton’s army was firmly entrenched about the city. From the sound of crossfire, Crystal guessed the Union Army was just as firmly entrenched somewhere very close.
The newspaper, now produced on rolls of wallpaper, assured the people that General Johnston would come to the rescue. A statement by an army surgeon acknowledged that Vicksburg was in a difficult position, but certainly not critical. He ended by saying, “We need to take courage; President Davis has no intention of sacrificing us to the Yankees.”
As Crystal discovered, the pressure of war reduced the barriers between people. Each day as the clock struck at noon, she went to the church to pray. Daily the noontime prayer meeting grew in size. Shoulder to shoulder, all differences forgotten, the people came. Men and women entered with pinched, fearful faces, and came out tear-stained, but serene.