by Stephy Smith
Your loving son, Tom.
He folded the letter and tucked it into his pouch with others he refused to send.
Chapter Seven
Izella
Izella clenched the teacup in her hand. She stood on the upper floor balcony, peering over the land. The early morning hours, without the blast of guns and cannons, she’d found were the most peaceful. Deep in her heart, she prayed to see the five men she loved so dearly on the horizon, marching toward home. Rumors filtering into the mansion brought news there was no end to the war in sight.
Letters from Lewis expressed things she knew were possible, but his confirmation and worries weighed heavy on her soul. She wouldn’t share his concerns with the girls. It ate at her to hold it all in, but she would until this war ended per his request.
On weary legs, she stumbled to the bedroom and slumped on the window seat facing the front of the house. Lewis loved the bedroom. Long, dark blue velvet curtains framed the windows and were drawn back with white, roped sashes. Light blue walls accented the carved white mantel fireplaces situated on each side of the room. Hand-painted portraits of the family set in gilded frames dotted the walls.
With a shaky hand, she lifted the cushion and removed the box of letters she secreted there. She wrapped her arms around the wooden rectangle and hugged her most prized possessions to her heart.
“Oh Lewis,” she cried. “If I could only believe you fare well. One gaze upon your handsome face, one touch from your calloused hand to let me know everything will once again be right with our world would quench all doubt in my soul.” She kissed the end of the box and returned it to the hiding space.
As the days slithered by, she realized time passed even slower for the men. Moisture pooled in her eyes as she gazed at the thick bedcovers that warmed her on cold nights. A terrible sense of selfishness encased her mind knowing her men were not privy to comfort. She shivered and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.
The girls’ constant bickering wrapped her into a bundle of confusion. Her world unraveled as if she pulled a string on a freshly crocheted afghan. Lost in thought, she stared across the land.
A wretched scream filtered from the open door behind her. Setting the cup on the table, she ran to Maggie’s room.
****
Maggie
Maggie sat balled on the bed. Bent over, she hugged her waist as another contraction pierced her stomach. The usual calming effects of the green walls and gold curtains did nothing to still the pain spreading over her body. Her belly tightened and she held her breath.
Where is everyone? Didn’t they hear me call? The contraction ended and she wiped the perspiration from her brow.
Her eyes closed and she jumped when the door slid open. Izella entered first, followed by Grace and Mittie. The women’s personal attendants brought water, linens and blankets in preparation for the special occasion.
“Oh…oh…” was all she managed to utter before another pain pushed through her body.
Mittie raised Maggie’s legs and Grace twisted her shoulders to place her back on the bed. Izella patted her brow with a wadded, damp handkerchief.
The ravages of the war outside faded inside the room as the precious miracle of birth began. Even though she tried, Maggie could focus on nothing except the labor. The pain inside her grew overbearing and demanding. She fought the urge to scream, saving her energy to push the baby out. Her mind begged for merciful relief.
She reclined on the bed to wait for the next assault to seize her. The door flew open with a loud bang and she turned to the Yanks invading her room.
Her mother and sisters huddled between her and the men forming a line of defense. Besieged by another round of wicked tightening clawing its way across her stomach, she glared at the men.
“Get out.” The hatred in her voice brought stares from the other women. A strong desire to protect her baby rushed over her senses.
Grace stepped forward. “She’s in labor and we do not have time to play war games. So unless you want us to turn the she-bear on you,” she nodded toward the bed, “I suggest you leave this house immediately.”
Hurriedly, the Yanks scrambled out of the room.
Mittie grabbed onto Maggie’s hand as Izella garnered her position between Maggie’s legs.
“Squeeze my hand if you have to.” Mittie’s low voice provided little comfort.
“Do you see anything, Mother? How much longer?” Maggie hurled the words as another stabbing pain consumed her.
“I see the head, Maggie. A few more strong pushes and the baby will be here. You’re making great progress.” Izella patted her knee.
A few more heavy pushes and Maggie slumped back onto the bed. The infant’s cries echoed in the room. Relieved to hear such healthy lungs, tears filled her eyes. She silently wished Robert had been there to share the joy with her.
“Thank you, Lord.” She drew in a deep breath and pushed herself to sit.
“What is it? A boy or a girl?” Grace called from her position next to the door.
Maggie’s voice cracked as she took her child in her arms for the first time. “It’s a girl. A beautiful baby girl. Look Mother, she has ten fingers and toes. And she’s identical to Robert.”
“What do we call her?” Mittie raised her brow.
“Amanda Izella Gentry.” Maggie cast a glance at her mother. “Amanda was Robert’s mother. I wish he could have been here.”
Chapter Eight
Grace
Remembering the Yanks who rudely invaded Maggie’s room, Grace stomped downstairs, her hand tight on the mahogany baluster as she descended.
“Where did the yellow-belly sap suckers go?” She glared at one of the servants.
“Why Miss Grace, they skedaddled out of here like they had fire in their pants. One of them muttered something about not wanting no part of the woman possessed by the devil.”
“Didn’t take them long to hit the avenue and send their horses into a dead run. Not one of those grubby soldiers touched a lick of food. Didn’t take no livestock either,” another servant said.
“They was all green in the face. Young men, about the age of our Thomas. Acted like it was their first taste of how babies come into this world.” Letty’s lips curled up.
“Yanks always plunder what’s not theirs. I find it odd they left us alone.” Grace quirked her lip upward. The memory of Maggie’s evil eyes as she lay on the bed glaring at the men caused her to giggle. She hurried back up stairs. “It’s a girl and her name is Amanda,” she called over her shoulder.
A very large walk-in closet, more a room than anything, held Grace’s clothes, a bed and personal items. She’d forfeited her room for Maggie until Robert’s return. Several long steps carried her to a trunk on the floor. She opened its lid and grabbed the tiny dress and a blanket she’d made for Amanda. With a hurried twist, she exited the room and made her way to Maggie’s side.
She gazed down at the tiny form and marveled at the little arms and legs. Beautiful fingers and toes curled tight, her tiny lips pursed shut. The wonder of the new life wrapped around her heart with a love she had never acknowledged before. A sparkle in Maggie’s eyes sent envious shimmers down her spine. Would she ever have children of her own, to coddle and love as her sister did now with the newborn? She let out the breath caught in her throat.
****
Mittie
Mittie breathed a sigh of relief. She refused to be responsible for one more whine from Maggie, whose constant complaints wore on everyone’s nerves. If Mittie had her way she’d never have children, especially if being pregnant caused a response similar to a boil festering in a sensitive spot. She wanted to love her children, not despise her swollen body.
Her ideas were her own, and she kept them to herself. There was no need in bringing them up to anyone. It wouldn’t have done any good if she had. Now it was all over and, with a prayer, Maggie could be normal again.
If her mother allowed her to carry her gun, she would have handed
it to her sister. In her mind, picturing Maggie blasting away at the Yanks brought forth a round of laughter. She held her hands over her mouth to quiet her amusement. She tried to recall a time when her sister handled a gun and couldn’t ever remember such a thing.
Mittie was the only female in the family who knew how to properly handle a pistol. Probably the only woman on the grounds who had taken up the sport of shooting and riding astride on a horse, she mused. Mittie marched down the stairs and she clutched her sides with her elbows as she bent with more giggles erupting. Her sisters, always the prim and proper women, never letting a situation rule their emotions had both of them lost control in the same day their mother had. What a treat it would have been if the war hadn’t been closing in on them.
For the first time in her life, she wasn’t the one who advanced head on into the problems at hand.
She reached for the basket of linens to wash and take to the hospital where she and Grace decided to volunteer. If she wasn’t allowed to go to battle, her contribution of clean bed sheets and bandages for the wounded men flooding the makeshift hospitals would have to suffice.
Chapter Nine
Lewis
Lewis leaned against the trunk of the tree. He traced the folds of the letter, and then he carefully opened it. Cold winds blew across the camp. Word spread that they would be moving out soon.
He opened the letter and hoped to post one to send home. He raised the paper to his nose and took a long sniff of the fresh flowery scent. A warmth settled in his soul for a few seconds before being interrupted by distant gunfire.
A half-hearted glint hit his soul. Maggie had given birth to a girl. That remained the best news he’d received in a long time.
“I’m a grandpa,” he belted out, lifting his head. The brilliance of good news to one enlivened the spirits of the entire company of troops.
Each man in his unit cheered, the roar of the crowd loud enough to call the Yanks right into their camp. The commanding officer appeared from the shadows, a deep furrow in his brow. “What in blue blazes is going on here?” he yelled, his eyes dulling with anger. “You men will call the enemy down on us!”
“Lewis here just got news he’s a grandpa,” one of the men called out.
A faraway look formed on the commander’s face and his eyes twinkled. “Ah, I remember my first grandchild. Congratulations, Sanders. Now you men clamp your mouths lest you want to have your throats slit in your sleep by the enemy.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lewis stared after the commander’s backside as he disappeared through the opening of his tent.
Joyful news such as this froze his mind. He pulled out his pen and paper, searching for just the right words. How to respond? In the past, he had always held Izella after she gave birth. After each child he told her how proud he was and how much she meant to him.
He started to write without thinking.
My dear sweet Izella,
Give Maggie and Amanda a big hug for me. The news of a baby brightened our spirits if only for a short time. I have but a few minutes to spare before I must sleep and prepare for another battle. Forgive me my loving wife. I will admit now I was wrong for coming off to this wretched war. I don’t believe we have a fighting chance of whipping the Yanks. They have proved to be an admirable foe and there are more men than we have. Relentless in their assault on the South, the determined men have better weapons, uniforms and other provisions we cannot access. More and more of our men are losing their lives to disease and infections. Their men seem to reproduce right before our very eyes as we march into a hell on territory we know nothing of. They are at an advantage for they have the means to supplies, which we have been cut off from. I hope the boys are faring well, wherever they may be. I have not received any correspondence from any of them since we were separated and I fear for Tom the most.
I love you forever my dear, Lewis.
****
Robert
Robert savored the letter as if it were a home cooked meal. His gaze caressed each line as he memorized Maggie’s every word. She’d sent her love as always, telling him all was well at home. The bottom of the letter caught his eye. Shock shuddered through him. In a larger, bold print she’d written: You are the father of a baby girl. Her name is Amanda Izella Gentry, and she’s beautiful.
He clenched the letter to his heart, lifted his head to heaven and let the tears roll down his cheeks.
“Gentry? Gentry, are you all right?”
“I must be dreaming. But a wonderful dream it is.” He pulled the letter from his chest and wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’ve had the most miraculous news. I’m the father to a baby girl.”
“Was there any doubt you would be the father?” Low chuckles escaped his companions.
“No.” He reflected on his own words and then joined the men in celebration.
The lightness in his heart wouldn’t last long before the war intruded on his happiness. He shivered and hitched his resolve up a notch. Now he had to make sure he made it home to meet his new daughter. He pulled out his writing utensils and scrawled the words on the paper.
Dear Maggie, the love of my life,
Do not be discouraged by this correspondence. Today on the battlefield, a volley tore through me. The pain in my shoulder was so great, tears refused to moisten my eyes. Heat from the sun’s penetrating rays parched my throat and scorched my face to the point of cracking it open. As I lay in pain, a wounded Yank discovered me and dragged me to the woods to conceal my body. As we rested in the shade, some of his men discovered us and I was loaded into a wagon and brought to the prison hospital. The Yank was tried as a deserter and for treason and shot in my presence. I ask you to pray for his family and his soul. He was a kid the same age as Tom. He risked his life, gave his life admirably to save mine. My only wish would be to know his name.
I am in a room filled with strangers and away from the harsh environment. I count my blessings as I now have a bed to lie upon. The small amount of broth is better than we were getting in the field. I fear when I am well things will change. For now, my love, I am in little pain and must rest. For when the time comes to end this war, I must have strength to make the journey home. Give Amanda a big hug and tell her I love her.
Your loving husband and father to our daughter, Robert.
****
William
William charged into battle. The wind whipped across his face, and he waved his sword in the air. Men fell from their horses. Smoke rose from guns and bodies littered the ground. Blood soaked through the coats of blue and gray. The battle raged fiercely with blazing artillery fire.
With battlefield maneuvers burned in his mind, he was antsy to move on to the confinement of Indians out West. Doubt filtered through his memory. What made him want to kill men, boys his age and younger? He shook his head in denial. It wasn’t that he wanted to kill…he’d planned to get the war over with, and then make his way to protect the settlers as they journeyed west. But the war raged onward with no end in sight.
At times he wondered where he would be if he had chosen the army instead of the cavalry. There had been no word from his father and brothers. Deep in his soul, he knew they were knee-deep in filthy sludge, lying in the trenches, and poor Samuel boxed in some tent with all the demons only war could inflict. He loved the cavalry, but the war divulged a misgiving truth about the romantic notions he conjured in his youthful mind long ago.
****
Samuel
A strange sensation settled over Samuel. The air in the tent was too still, the screams and moans and the ever-present smell of death never stopped. Something was up, even though he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. He didn’t have time to worry.
Far too many men littered the tables, the ground, and lay underneath trees. He glanced up for a few moments, only to find more men being carried in and placed anywhere there was room. He shook his head, forcing his focus back to the tormenting challenge of trying to save another life.
&nbs
p; For days he stayed awake, standing at the tables, operating, amputating and patching wounds. Never in his life had he been so tired—so exhausted that he thought he might be working in his sleep. If it hadn’t been for the noise which made what happened around him real, he’d have closed his eyes just for a moment to rest his weary mind and blood-soaked, overworked hands.
The first lull of the day came around one in the morning. He traipsed to his tent and retrieved his diary. With heaviness in his heart, he penned another segment.
1862
We have no medical supplies to treat the men pouring into the hospital. Many of them need amputations, which are performed without anesthetics to cease the pain. The screams are mortifying. Distress dominates the hospital as we continue to work until we are asleep on our feet. Our equipment is crude compared to the Union’s surgical supplies. Men from both the North and the South appear for assistance. It no longer matters what color the uniform, they all bleed red and feel the same pain. All cries for mercy send wicked strings of goose bumps across the skin then burns the memory into our souls, as if we have no defense to fight our own misgivings while we trudge through the days and nights with very little time or food to sustain our own energy.
We requisition the good Lord above to intervene and give us strength and forgiveness from this campaign we have embarked upon. Oh, what fools we were to think it would end within a month’s time. There are moments I feel as if I were cast from earth and tossed to the devil into a bottomless pit of sorrow which no words can describe.