Jesselynn lay back and let the water lap her chin. If she moved too quickly, water swelled over the tub edges, so she soaped the cloth and extended one foot for scrubbing. When finished with both feet, she sighed. How wonderful it would be to lie back and float for a while. Let all the troubles take care of themselves, remember back when a bath like this was taken for granted, was a woman’s right.
She stood up cautiously to keep from slopping water, reached for the pitcher, and poured a stream of cool water on her head. It gushed down over her shoulders, rinsing, cooling as it flowed. She hadn’t felt so clean since before her father died.
Once dried, she discovered rose-scented powder on the shelf, and so she dusted herself before stepping into the bloomers and settling the camisole around her middle. She came out from behind the screen after folding the towel and looked longingly at the bed. Crossing the room, she stroked the pale yellow coverlet, quilted in a scroll pattern with stitches too tiny to count.
Such beauty in the midst of a harsh land. The fabric felt like silk beneath her fingertips. She pulled herself away and sat at the dressing table, a triple mirror showing her every feature. Her damp hair, freed from dust and grime, feathered about her face like a cloud of golden butterflies, tipped with walnut stain. Freckles dotted her slightly turned-up nose, causing her to shake her head.
‘‘So much for soft white skin. Mine looks like old shoe leather, with spots.’’ She ran a brush through her curls, rose, and slid the dress over her head. Lucinda would tsk if she saw her, but what Lucinda didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Jesselynn. Keeping her face from the sun had been the least of her worries, and now along with her hands and arms, it glowed golden brown, as if she were an octoroon.
The dress fit as though it had been sewn just for her. Puffed sleeves, a scooped neck filled in with a shirring of lace to be proper, and a full skirt gathered to a waist that dipped in front. She smoothed her hands down her sides. And stared at her boots. She daren’t go barefoot. But boots with this dress?
Whirling in place so the skirt billowed and swished around her legs, she stretched her arms above her head.
A knock sounded on the door. ‘‘Jesselynn, I brought you some slippers.’’
‘‘Come in. I’m decent.’’ Slippers even. How would she ever repay Rebeccah for these luxuries?
Rebeccah came through the door and stopped, her eyes dancing in delight. ‘‘Oh, I knew you would be beautiful. How lovely.’’ She crossed the room and handed Jesselynn the slippers. ‘‘I do hope they fit.’’
‘‘Anything is better than those boots. Couldn’t picture myself clumping down the stairs, trying to keep from stepping on the hem.’’ She slid her feet into shoes that were a bit tight but certainly tolerable. ‘‘Thank you, dear Rebeccah. I’d almost forgotten . . .’’ She gestured to the dress, the hair. Further words refused to pass the lump in her throat. If only Wolf could see me like this.
‘‘You are most welcome. My husband sent a note saying he was bringing company for supper, so as soon as you are ready, please join us in the parlor.’’
‘‘Thank you for the invitation.’’ Wolf leaned his rifle against the wall. ‘‘I need to wash first.’’
Captain Jensen pointed to the door leading to the back of the building. ‘‘There are basins and towels right out there. I’ll give you five minutes. Rebeccah dislikes me being late, so when I can, I make sure I’m there early.’’
Wolf nodded and headed for the back of the building. While he had no clean clothes, he would wash off what dust he could. He shucked his shirt, washed, shaved, wet his hair, and combed it back for retying. With the latigo knotted in place, he shook the dust out of his shirt and pulled it back over his head. The wavy mirror only told him he had no dirt spots on his face, or razor cuts either.
Together the two men crossed the parade grounds and took the two steps as one. Captain Jensen held the door open and motioned Wolf to precede him. Just inside the door Wolf looked up to see a vision descending the stairs. The woman looked vaguely familiar, so he nodded and smiled.
He doesn’t even recognize me. Jesselynn swallowed hard to get her butterflies back down to her middle. She lowered her lashes to keep him from seeing her soul. He looks, he looks . . . No words powerful enough came to mind. She trailed the banister with one hand and raised her chin just a mite.
‘‘Hello, Mr. Torstead. How nice to see you again.’’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Richmond, Virginia
‘‘Take this note to Carrie Mae, please, Reuben, but don’t let her know we’re gone.’’
‘‘Yessum.’’ Reuben took the envelope, shaking his head all the while. ‘‘I knows dat what you do is good and is de Lawd’s will, but dis ol’ darky goin’ to ’sail the gates of heaven dat He brings you back safe.’’
Louisa patted his arm. ‘‘I am grateful for any and all prayers. Our Father says He puts His angels in charge of us. I surely do hope He sent an entire brigade this time.’’ Her stomach hadn’t stopped fluttering since the afternoon a few days before when Zachary broke the news. Zachary nearly didn’t come home the first time they went to Washington. While she’d made it straight through, his trip back had taken him three weeks. During that time, they didn’t know if he was dead or alive. That after the months of not hearing from him when he was off fighting and then showing up in her hospital, wounded and unidentified.
With a black hat and veil, along with widow’s weeds borrowed from a neighbor, she looked near like a spook, far as she was concerned. But there was no way to disguise Zachary’s injuries, so they had capitalized on them instead. He sat hunched in a chair with wheels, his dark hair powdered white, his crutch bound to the handles, two boots in place on the footrests, with a blanket covering his knees and a shawl around his shoulders. He looked like an old man, a very sick old man.
‘‘If only we had Meshach here to push this contraption.’’ Louisa studied the handles on the back of the chair.
‘‘This isn’t all. There will be a coffin in the back of the buggy, with a dead possum in it to smell so bad no one will open it. We will be taking our dear brother home to Washington for burial. We have passes to get through both lines.’’
‘‘How will we bring back enough quinine to do any good?’’
‘‘There’s a false bottom in this chair and a false bottom in the floor of the buggy. And rocks in the coffin to make it weigh out like it carries a man, though he not be overly large. I heard that if you put pepper in your handkerchief, it will make tears a natural part of your demeanor.’’
Louisa returned to the kitchen to fix herself a small packet of pepper, tucking it into the edge of the basket filled with food for their journey. When they had the buggy loaded, she took up the reins and clucked their horse forward.
‘‘Lord bless and keep you,’’ Aunt Sylvania cried as they started out.
‘‘He must, for there is no other,’’ Louisa muttered under her breath.
The road to Fredericksburg seemed to speed by, as the Union lines were now north of Gettysburg. While they knew of the battle fought there, little information had come down before they left Richmond. Reaching the ferry at South Point, Zachary asked what anyone had heard of the battle.
‘‘We done took a whuppin’,’’ the man taking the money replied. ‘‘Three days fightin’—don’t know how many kilt.’’ He shook his head and spat a wad off to the side. ‘‘Lee done his best. Bet it nigh to broke his heart losin’ so many of his boys like that.’’
Louisa blinked to stop the burning in her eyes. How many of the men they’d nursed back to health were now lying dead or injured again? And the supplies they would get wouldn’t even fill a pinhole in the need.
She looked over at her brother. Mouth lined in white, Zachary thanked the man for telling them and clucked the horse forward as they loaded onto the ferry. Too late to plead for them to go home, but she knew it would do no good anyway. If their journey helped one wounded man, it was worth it.
As they neared the shore Louisa’s heart picked up the pace always caused by the sight of blue uniforms. She could feel Zachary’s gaze upon her.
‘‘You all right?’’
She nodded and forced her hands to relax in her lap.
‘‘State your business, sir.’’ The soldier held his rifle across his chest.
‘‘We are taking our brother to be buried in the family plot.’’
‘‘And where might that be?’’
‘‘North Church Cemetery. Generations of Highwoods are buried there.’’
Louisa held her handkerchief to her eyes, the pepper causing instant tears. She sniffed back a sob and laid a shaking hand on her brother’s arm.
‘‘I know, dear, this will soon be over.’’ Zachary handed the sentry his papers. ‘‘You’ll find them all in order.’’
The sentry glanced down at the signature and seal. ‘‘Pull your buggy over there while I show this to my superior.’’
Oh, Lord, preserve us. Louisa had no need to fake a sob. She instead fought for control of the fear that made her want to cry out. Oblivious to the traffic passing them by, she closed her eyes against the burning from the pepper and let her head droop against the seat back.
‘‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’’ The sentry handed back their papers and waved them forward.
Louisa nearly collapsed from relief.
‘‘Thank you, Jesus’’ became her consistent prayer.
Since the procurement of the quinine and some morphine had been arranged ahead of time with sources of whom she knew nothing, they quickly packed the carriage, used their return passes at the Union lines, and faded into the morass of defeated and retreating Confederate soldiers, several of whom rode south with them unaware of the precious cargo accompanying them. Upon returning to Richmond, the supplies were dispersed among the hospitals. Their cargo was a mere drop in the vat of unimaginable misery, but Louisa felt she’d done something of value. If only she could do more.
Whenever she could, she canvassed Richmond homes, pleading for any small delicacy to give to the soldiers in the hospitals. She and Reuben picked peaches and apricots off trees badly in need of pruning but producing in spite of the war. Her regulars baked what they could, made puddings out of precious sugar and milk and eggs, shared jams and jellies, whatever they had been able to preserve.
With the rebels retreating from Gettysburg, every hospital was filled, including floor space with the overflow of the miasma of misery spilling into the churches. Thousands were buried where they fell on the battlefields, and those not buried were picked clean by scavengers, their bones bleaching in the hot summer sun. Louisa had an entire cadre of helpers who carried water to the suffering men, read to them, wrote letters home, eased whatever they could for the living. And a few chaplains came regularly to comfort the dying.
One night Reuben came to her, calling her gently to rouse her from sleep deeper than any well. ‘‘Missy Louisa.’’ He touched her shoulder. ‘‘Missy Louisa.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Dat young man dey brung today . . .’’
Louisa threw the sheet back. ‘‘I’ll be right there.’’ She snatched her wrapper off the end of the bed and followed the old man down the stairs, tying her belt as she went. Automatically her prayers rose as she hurried into the dining room.
Zachary sat in the chair by the cot, dipping cloths into water and laying them back on the body burning with fever.
‘‘Has he taken any tea?’’ Abby had steeped a tea from willow bark that usually helped with fever.
‘‘Tried spoonin’ it in, but he not swallow.’’ The maid looked up from the bedside. ‘‘He choke.’’
‘‘I tried to keep Reuben from waking you.’’ Zachary glared at the old man.
‘‘No, I told him to.’’ Louisa laid a hand on the young soldier’s forehead. So hot. What else could they do?
The boy’s hands twitched, and his back arched in a shuddering convulsion. He went rigid, guttural sounds gagging on the humid air, with not even a breeze to ease the room. When he fell limp again, Louisa laid two fingers on the inside of his wrist to check his pulse.
‘‘We’ve got to cool him down.’’ She turned to Reuben. ‘‘Go get a clean sheet. We’ll soak that and wrap him in it.’’
‘‘It’s not proper for you to be doin’ all this.’’ Zachary rubbed his forehead and sighed.
‘‘Oh, dear brother, helpin’ this young man live is more important than propriety. Our Lord . . .’’
‘‘Louisa, I don’t much care what our Lord said or did.’’ The sneer in his voice cut right to her soul. She’d known he no longer took part in church, but to say such things tore at her heart. He was her big brother, the one she looked up to.
‘‘Zachary, how can you say such things, or even think them?’’
‘‘Look around you.’’ Waving his hand, he tipped over the washbasin. Water sloshed over her bare feet. ‘‘You think God cares about which side wins this war?’’
‘‘I don’t think He doesn’t want us fighting at all.’’
‘‘You haven’t seen the piles of dead bodies like I have. I lay on the field with a dead man across my legs for hours before help came. Two wounded men died right beside me, one callin’ on his God to save him. No one saved him. No one saved him or the others. One wore a blue uniform. If God heard, He turned away.’’
Louisa’s heart sprung a leak, and the tears flowed as she listened to his ragged voice. She put a hand on his shoulder, but he tried to shrug it off. Never before had he said anything about the time he was wounded. She’d known it had to be bad, for most men refused to talk about the battles, other than to mention where they’d been or whom they served under.
Father, help me help him. I hear him, but I don’t know how to answer him.
The man on the bed convulsed again, his body bucking the cot, the legs scraping the floor. The sound of the scrapes ate into her like fingernails on a slate.
‘‘Easy, son, easy.’’ Zachary adopted the tone he would use with a fractious horse.
Reuben came into the room with a sheet soaked in a bucket of water, and together he and Louisa wound it around the gasping soldier. The sheet dried faster than if hung outside on a summer day with a hot wind.
‘‘Mother?’’ The young man stared up at Louisa.
‘‘No, dear, be easy now. Rest so you can get better.’’ Louisa continued to stroke the hair back from his forehead, remembering how good her mother’s hand felt when she had done the same.
‘‘Mother . . . I . . . did . . . my . . . b-best, like . . . like you always . . .’’ He stared into Louisa’s eyes. ‘‘Like you always . . . said.’’ The pauses between words grew longer. ‘‘I will . . . see . . . you . . . in . . .’’—Louisa bent her head to hear his fading voice— ‘‘in . . . the . . . mornin’.’’
Another breath. A long pause.
No, don’t die like this. God, it’s not fair.
But he was gone, the last gentle exhalation from lips that smiled, not a big smile but enough for Louisa to know that he saw something beyond and was no longer afraid.
Louisa and Reuben, both of them wiping away tears, nodded to each other. Again they, like him, had done their best. My best wasn’t good enough to keep him here, but how can I resent that, when I know he has gone on to a far better place? While he is in the arms of God, I am here and tired. So tired, Lord. I am so tired of the dying and the crying. She stood and sighed. ‘‘I’ll notify the hospital in the morning.’’
Zachary sat with his head propped on his hand, eyes closed, cheeks like carved marble. Louisa started to say something, but he waved her away, so she turned to Reuben. ‘‘You go on to bed, Reuben, you’ve not had a decent night’s sleep in I don’t know how long.’’
‘‘Old man like me don’ need much sleep. I cleans up here, den go to bed.’’
Knowing that arguing was as useless as trying to stop a rainstorm, Louisa made her way back up the stairs, each tread
feeling higher than the last. At least Aunt Sylvania had slept through it all. Louisa fell across her bed, feeling the tears start again. The boy had never made it to manhood, yet had done a man’s job. And died for it.
Oh, Lord, when will it all be over? She had no strength to stay awake for an answer that had yet to come.
Dusk was slipping in the window when she finally awoke. The birds twittered their good-night wishes outside her window. Not a sound came from downstairs. Up the street a mother called her son home. Louisa thought of the mother of the boy who’d died during the night. She would never call him home again.
A tear slid from the side of her eye and blotted her pillow. How many boys had she eased on their way, fighting to save them but blessing their passing? She didn’t want to count. She crossed to the folding screen in the corner, stripped, and washed herself in the cool water of the pitcher. They should have wakened her earlier, but knowing her family, she imagined they decided she needed sleep more than anything. Once dressed, with her hair combed, she made her way downstairs, one hand trailing on the banister. Ignoring the dining room, knowing the body was gone and most likely another injured man in its place, she followed the sounds of laughter to the back veranda. She paused just inside the French doors that overlooked the backyard, a place now filled with laughter and teasing, perhaps trying to chase away the sorrow of the night.
She watched her brother as he told a story of their childhood, his good hand flashing to help in the descriptions. Was this the same man who hours earlier had said he no longer believed in a God who cared about the men fighting the war?
His words of the dark night felt like a vest of lead dragging at her shoulders, pulling her neck taut. Did he really believe what he’d said, or was his diatribe due to his grief at the death of the young boy and the frustrations of dealing with his own handicaps? Louisa rubbed her forehead where she could feel a headache starting. No one knew she was up yet. She could climb the stairs and sink back into oblivion, back where she had no worries about finding food for her men, or medicine, or even the simplest of comforts.
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