Songs the Soldiers Sang

by Bette McNicholas

  “This young lady claims she’s Laurel Bray,” she answered, with a look of disgust on her face. The gentleman turned as soon as he recognized the name and rushed down the stairs toward her, but not before giving his wife a piercing look.

  “I’m Charles Stroll, Miss Bray, and this is my wife, Matilda. Please excuse her abruptness,” he whispered, “she feels a little uncomfortable—you understand, our buying the house at auction and all.”

  Laurel took a deep breath, but try as she might, she couldn’t hold back one lonely tear. And no, she didn’t understand. She’d been more affected by the woman’s attitude than she cared to admit. She swiped hastily at the offending tear and stood her ground.

  Mr. Stroll was solicitous, apparently comprehending at once Laurel’s pride and courage. “Would you like to come inside?”

  Laurel was torn with indecision for a moment, then quickly replied, “No, Mr. Stroll. I didn’t come here to confront you or to see the house. I’ve sent several letters to Mossland inquiring about my father, but I never received a response and therefore assumed the estate had not been sold. I didn’t know a sale had transpired, and I didn’t come here to start any trouble.”

  “Of course, you didn’t, my dear.”

  Who was this squat old man to think he could call her dear? She fumed inwardly. Even though she knew he tried to make amends for his wife’s hostility, Laurel couldn’t turn off her anger. Haughtily, she began, “One letter from the government regarding the tax money was eventually forwarded to me through a network of acquaintances. I gave permission for all of the land to be sold, since I obviously couldn’t afford to pay the back taxes. I’m homeless, with a mammy to care for, and have no means of support.”

  She remembered agonizing over the decision to relinquish any claim on the land and trying to continue became difficult for her. She took another deep breath and said, “I came here hoping my father might have returned looking for me.”

  The elderly gentleman, visibly touched by her words, placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry. We haven’t seen or heard from him. But, perhaps we can help with financial matters. Were you notified by the government that you’d receive some compensation from the sale of the land because the final bid at the auction was greater than the amount of taxes due?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Again I must apologize. Please leave us an address where you can be reached and I’ll make certain the government officials forward the money to you as soon as everything’s settled.”

  “Thank you,” she said, finally beginning to relax her temper. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Have you inquired about your father at the Government Army Headquarters, Miss Bray?”

  “Yes, I came here directly after I notified them that my father was missing. But, they already had that information.”

  While they continued talking, Laurel noticed that Mrs. Stroll remained at the top of the stairs straining to hear their conversation, but still not willing to have any personal contact with Laurel.

  Mr. Stroll looked up at his wife and asked, “Matilda, did any letters from Miss Bray come to the house?”

  “Well yes, Charles,” she answered nervously, wringing her hands together, “but I never opened them—I threw them away.”

  Her stinging words caused Laurel to gasp.

  Mr. Stroll creased his brow in anger, a look that was not lost on his wife. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing, Matilda?” he asked, raising his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” she said angrily. “They were addressed to Mossland and I thought they were letters of hate and harassment because we purchased the land.”

  “You could’ve opened them and at least given Miss Bray the benefit of the doubt and shown a little Christian charity. We’re missionaries, for heaven’s sake, Matilda.”

  “If you had opened the letters, Mrs. Stroll, and sent me a reply,” Laurel bristled again, “I would’ve known Mossland had been sold. More imperatively, I would have known my father hadn’t returned looking for me and I wouldn’t have bothered you nor traveled all this way.”

  Laurel stared until Mrs. Stroll lowered her eyes sheepishly. Then she continued, “You could have saved each of us a lot of anguish. I had no way of knowing if the house had been sold. I hoped one of the slaves might have received my letters. Our house servants were able to read and write.”

  Appearing chastised, chagrined, and apologetic, Mrs. Stroll hastened down the stairs. As she approached Laurel, she looked relieved to find, in spite of the worn clothing, that Laurel was indeed quite clean.

  Laurel could only imagine that when Mrs. Stroll first came to Beaufort on assignment with her husband, who was to oversee the plantation on St. Helena Island, it must have taken everything in that woman’s power to overcome her fear of the filth and disease she thought she’d find there. But she’d have been astonished to discover that the slaves of Colonel Bray and on most of the islands were better cared for than was rumored up north.

  “This is very difficult, Miss Bray, but I would like to attempt an explanation. When my husband was selected by the government to come to Beaufort, well, someone had to oversee the plantations on the surrounding islands and help the slaves adjust to freedom, I followed obediently, ready to act as one of the teachers. Although we were staunch abolitionists and members of the New England Freedman’s Society, we had little or no previous personal contact or experience with Negroes, only our strong, religious convictions of the evils of slavery.”

  Laurel coughed, then shifted uncomfortably. She understood how wrong slavery had been, but she didn’t want to be lectured, nor blamed for something that had been an accepted practice hundreds of years before she was born. Her grandparents had inherited the slaves with the purchase of their property. Her display of impatience, however slight, didn’t seem to deter Mrs. Stroll.

  “We were informed that we would find abused and diseased slaves living in filth and squalor.” Mrs. Stroll’s shoulders jolted at the mere mention of those words. “We were apprehensive when we arrived. Of course, what we found instead were mostly childlike creatures who had been well cared for and completely dependent on their white families.”

  “The task was enormous,” Mr. Stroll said. “There were thousands of them, which shouldn’t have surprised us since a third of the Southern population consisted of slaves. But we were overwhelmed. We didn’t expect to see the men dressed in trousers, white shirts and vests and all the women in plaid and print dresses and white caps.”

  “Many were sick with malaria and had been trying to fight the disease with whiskey and tobacco,” Mrs. Stroll interjected. “The slaves soon revered us and looked to us for direction since they had been abandoned. The other women and I spent time schooling them and teaching them to read and write, and tending to their health. We’ve come to love this place, Miss Bray, but under the circumstances we feel...”

  Laurel didn’t know why, but all of a sudden she felt sorry for the woman and said, “It’s all right, Mrs. Stroll. None of this is your fault, any more than it is mine.”

  “Well, that’s true. Thank you. Please tell me why you wrote and why you’re here now?”

  “I was hoping my father might have returned home from prison or a hospital.”

  “Oh dear, I’m truly sorry. Please forgive my thoughtlessness. We haven’t heard anything concerning your father. Would you like to come inside? The house is all cleaned now, but the work on the restoration hasn’t started yet. The renegade slaves from some of the other islands and the soldiers did a lot of looting and damage to the homes before we came.”

  “When we arrived,” Mr. Stroll said, “the streets were littered with piles of broken furnishings, there were ale and liquor bottles strewn everywhere, and the gardens were already overgrown, trampled and destroyed. Please, won’t you come inside?”

  “I don’t think I can do that, not right now anyway, but if you would allow me to visit my mother’s grave...”

  “By all means
,” Mrs. Stroll interrupted again, anxious to spill several years of what she considered a hardship in a few minutes. If only she had had an inkling of what the Southern women had endured, Laurel thought.

  “We’re on our way to St. Helena where we’ve been living since we arrived. The home there wasn’t destroyed, only the contents had been stolen. Although no one’s mentioned your father to us, the Negroes may know something. You’re welcome to visit and question the ones that are still there.”

  Laurel whispered, “Thank you, but the memories are too fresh and painful and I will be leaving for Maryland soon.”

  Mrs. Stroll took Laurel’s hands and looked at her husband with pleading eyes.

  “We understand, Miss Bray. One of your, ah”—he hesitated—“ex-servants is in the house. Perhaps she can be of some help. Wait here and I’ll get her.” Mr. Stroll rushed up the front steps and disappeared inside.

  Reba! Oh dear God, let it be Reba, Laurel prayed. How she and Junie had missed Reba and her husband, Paul…how often they thought about them and wondered what had happened to them.

  Thinking about Reba and the happiness this home once held, brought a slight smile to Laurel’s lips, and she moved away from Mrs. Stroll, and began to wander around the front yard. She remembered the times when she’d run away from Ol’ Junie, knowing her mammy couldn’t catch her, and how she’d rush to the top of the carpeted, winding stairs, stretch out her arms and belly-flop to the bottom, scaring poor Junie.

  She had learned at an early age, that no matter how many times she went down those stairs, feet first, on her stomach, she knew the entire household would scurry to her aid. Nevertheless, she’d shrieked with anticipation, flopping from one step to the next with each loud thump she created.

  Before her feet touched the marble foyer, her daddy always magically appeared to catch her and sweep her up in the air, and then she’d put her arms around his neck and hug him tight.

  Reba was the one who was in charge of following Laurel everywhere. She’d scamper upstairs and hide from Reba in her mother’s wardrobe and throw a wide-brimmed straw hat lopsided on her head, hoping Reba wouldn’t see her. When she heard Reba coming she’d put her hands over her mouth to stifle her giggle while she waited.

  As soon as the wardrobe door creaked opened, she’d yell, “Boo!” And Reba always pretended to be surprised and would say, “Boo, yourself!” Then they’d hug and giggle.

  The front door of Mossland opened again and disturbed Laurel’s thoughts. Reba, emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. She hurried down the porch steps and Laurel stood waiting with open arms.

  “Oh Reba, you’re safe,” she cried as she embraced her. Reba placed her hands on Laurel’s shoulders and held her at arms length, untying the kerchief and freeing her curls. “My baby’s all grown up an’ so beautiful—like her mama.”

  The Strolls quietly slipped away and left them alone.

  Chapter Five

  Reba looked beyond Laurel when she didn’t see the ever-faithful Junie, and asked, “Has something happened to Old Junie? Isn’t she with you?”

  “No, but she’s fine. She’s waiting for me on a steamer.” Laurel closed her eyes and winced as though she realized for the first time that what she was about to say was true. “Junie’s really and truly old now, Reba. The war years have been hard on her. She simply couldn’t bring herself to come with me today.”

  Laurel looked around the once familiar surroundings and sighed. “Now that I’ve seen the house, I’m glad she stayed behind. Oh, Reba, what happened?”

  “Come, let’s sit on the steps outta the sun.”

  Laurel reached for Reba’s hand and felt the roughened blistered skin that had at one time felt like silk. She placed her free hand over Reba’s and knew the pain she had suffered. Reba’s hands were cut, and her nails were worn away below the quick, the hands of someone who had picked cotton.

  “Reba,” Laurel asked quietly, afraid of the answer but more afraid not to ask, “has anyone seen or heard from my father?”

  “The Colonel? Oh Lawd, Miss Laurel...Ya haven’t heard from him?”

  Laurel lowered her eyelids and shook her head.

  “How long’s it been, child?”

  “Since he left after mother’s funeral.”

  “Don’t tell me that, Miss Laurel, not the colonel?”

  “It’s true,” she uttered, barely able to speak.

  “What’re ya gonna do now?” Reba asked, and Laurel understood that her question was as final as saying she thought her father was dead.

  “I had hoped someone here might have heard from him. Junie and I will travel to Chesapeake City and live in Grandma Bray’s house. At least we have a home. I’ll have to find employment in order to take care of Junie and me.” She gave a weak smile and shook her head. “Although I don’t have any idea what kind of work I can do—you know I never was any good in the kitchen.”

  Reba laughed and nodded. “You loved to read books and ride your daddy’s horse, but you never did quite get the hang of needlework or cooking. Well, Miss Laurel, ya just might get married t’ that boy ya were sweet on all those summers ya stayed with your grandparents. Seems I recall ya always talkin’ bout how wealthy his folks were. Not t’ mention he was sooo handsome! What happened t’ all those dreams?”

  “I was young and that was a silly girl’s infatuation, Reba. Although, I won’t deny I’d like to see Robert again. I wrote to him before and after I left the island, but never received an answer. I don’t know if he’s even alive.”

  “I think Paul can help ya out, Miss Laurel, but we have t’ wait til he gets back from St. Helena. No matter what any piece of paper says bout us bein’ free, you’re still family.”

  “You know I feel the same about you. Is Paul well? What about the others?”

  “We lost some of the men, Miss Laurel, but most o’ us are well.”

  Laurel frowned. “Whom did we lose, and how?”

  “Maybe I should start at the beginnin’,” Reba said.

  Laurel listened intently while Reba told her about the cotton agents, the supervisors they called missionaries, and their wives.

  “Merchants followed the soldiers and took most of what was left to bring up north to sell. Paul an’ some o’ the others tried t’ keep them out, Miss Laurel, but they were wild and there was too many o’ them,” she said, raising her apron skirt to wipe her tears.

  Laurel placed an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t cry, Reba, please. At least you’re free. I know you did your best. I still feel horrible that I had to leave you all behind, but I didn’t have any way to take you with me. However, after what Junie and I experienced, I believe you were better off staying here.”

  She stood and ambled slowly across the boards of the front porch, now almost completely void of paint and badly splintered. The windows tempted her, but she refused to look inside, afraid to face the harsh reality of vandalism, neglect, and war. She’d already seen enough to last a lifetime. Slipping her hands into her pockets, she leaned against one of the graceful columns, putting her thoughts and feelings under control. “Tell me, Reba, about those who were lost.”

  “After the supervisors came and freed us, we had nowhere t’ go, so most of us worked the plantations, and some of the renegades did too. We got paid an’ were given a share o’ profits an’ allowed to plant our own corn. Everything was fine ‘til there was this plan t’ put together a troop of colored men. The Union soldiers promised those who didn’t want t’ join and fight could stay here. Then…” Reba slouched her shoulders. “Things changed an’ the soldiers started roundin’ up our men and boys. A few who didn’t want t’ fight ‘scaped through the trails in the marshes that only us natives knew existed. Some were taken by force before they could get away, an’ one o’ the soldiers shot Sara’s boy in the back while he was tryin’ t’ ‘scape.”

  “Oh Reba, how could they? How’s Sara?”

  Reba shook her head slowly from side to side, then her voice cracked and she
said, “Sara, she’s long gone, ran away after the funeral—took Berry with her.”

  “I should’ve been here,” Laurel said with regret.

  “Now don’t ya go thinkin’ that way. You were a young girl. Weren’t nothin’ ya could’ve done. You knows them men would have raped and taken out their hatred of the South and revenge on you. I was fortunate to have Paul. The people from up north simply couldn’t grasp why we didn’t want t’ fight. They didn’t understand how good Massa Bray was an’ how most o’ us was born here an’ most o’ us was happy. Lots of the renegade slaves from some of the islands wasn’t treated as good as we wus. Paul, he was chosen t’ stay on the island an’ help t’ defend Fort Royal. Don’t know what I’dve done if they’d taken him away.”

  Laurel stared at Reba’s light-skinned face. She’d been as much a part of Mossland as Laurel was. Her parents and grandparents before her had been born on St. Helena, and her father had purchased her as a companion to attend his new bride. Reba was ageless, Laurel thought, looking at her. Even the hardships hadn’t changed her spirit nor erased her beauty.

  Laurel sat back down alongside Reba and said, “I hope all of the others have faired as well as you and Paul?”

  “No, Miss Laurel, but they aren’t in real bad shape.”

  Laurel tightened her lips, disappointed. “What do you mean?”

  “Once we were freed we had t’ pay for our food an’ clothes an’ medicine an’ stuff. Paul an’ I built a cabin on the plantation at St. Helena an’ farmed our land. Those who brought in the most bushels o’ corn an’ cotton made more money an’ were able t’ buy more things. The lazy ones got jealous an’ left the islands after the war. They didn’t catch on to the system.”