by Ward, Marsha
A short ride brought Rulon into Harrisonburg. It was not difficult to locate the place he was to enlist, as a row of several tents stood in the town’s courthouse square. He dismounted and asked a passing man where he should enlist, and was directed to one of the tents. He hitched his horse to a nearby post and ducked inside the flap.
“Mornin’,” a cheerful voice welcomed him as he entered. “You the man from Shenandoah County?”
“That’s me. Name is Owen, Rulon Owen. I live near Mount Jackson.” He took off his hat, wondering if the plume was too ostentatious.
The other man got up from behind his camp desk, pulled down his jacket, and extended his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Owen. Ren Lovell. I’m from Hilton Crossing up the pike about two miles.”
Rulon took the proffered hand and gave it a firm shake. “I’m glad to know you, Lovell. Mayhap I should clarify. I moved into town when I wed a little more than a week ago.”
“Felicitations, I’m sure.” The man was slightly taller than Rulon, and slender, with bright yellow hair and a full moustache. He wore a short jacket with golden bars slashing the front, brass buttons holding it closed, and pants not unlike his own. His unabashed smile showed off a crooked front tooth and two dimples just beyond the facial hair. “Must have been hard to leave the new missus.”
Rulon grinned back. “You have the right of that. I don’t want to miss the doin’s, though. I believe the wife understands.”
“Don’t you be certain of that. The ladies may nod and smile, but they don’t comprehend the issues or our need to whup the enemy.”
“They do pitch in, regardless. Mount Jackson is buzzing like a bee tree. The ladies have taken over the Union Church for sewing circles.”
“They will do such. Are those ladies the ones who made your outfit?”
“No.” Rulon felt as though the uniform marked him as an outsider. “My ma and sisters made it up for me. Wanted me to make a good showing for the family.”
Lovell chuckled, said, “Nothing but the best for the honor of the family,” as though he understood perfectly Rulon’s discomfort, then reached back to his desk and snatched his cap, which he seated on his head. “I’m to take you to meet the captain. He’ll want to size you up before we commence drilling today.”
“Drillin’? What do you do in the drills?”
“We run the horses around a bit, and get more familiar with Hardee’s tactics.” Lovell smiled again. “That’s in a book the captain always totes around. I saw you tying up a horse. Yours? How are you armed?”
“The horse is mine. I brought a pistol I acquired not long ago. Gift of the wife’s father.”
“Uh huh. What is it?”
“A cap and ball five shot.”
“That’ll do to start,” Lovell said. “Drop your gear in the corner and I’ll make you known to Captain Yancey.”
“It’ll be fine to meet him at last. He and I are kin. Second cousins, my pa reckoned it.” Rulon put down his saddlebags and followed Lovell out of the tent and down the row to a larger tent near the center. A guard stood beside the hanging flap, carbine on his shoulder.
“Captain in?”
The guard gave Lovell a smirk. “I’m a-standing here, ain’t I?”
“Tell him the new man came up.”
“Go ahead in and tell him yourself.” He eyed Rulon from top to toe, then returned his gaze to the feather adorning the hat. “You the new boy from down in Shenandoah County?”
Rulon nodded slowly, then Lovell tapped him on the arm and held the tent flap open. “Let’s go.”
Unsure about what kind of welcome awaited him from his cousin, Rulon straightened immediately upon entering, side-stepped to let Lovell enter, and then stood stiffly to his estimation of attention.
~~~
The man in front of Rulon looked up when he and Ren Lovell entered the tent. He was clothed in a military uniform with a dozen or more gold buttons up the front of the coat and copious amounts of braid adorning the sleeves. Even seated in his camp chair with one leg crossed over the other, he had an erect carriage. Several papers covered his lap, and others had spilled onto the floor around him.
“What do you want?” he barked.
“Captain Yancey, sir. Rulon Owen, come here from Shenandoah County, has reported to enlist, sir,” Lovell said, snapping off a salute. “He is fixin’ to sign the paper, sir. I was told to bring him here when he arrived.”
Rulon imitated Lovell’s salute, but the captain gave him little notice after the first cursory inspection.
“Is he outfitted?”
“He has a pistol, sir.”
“Humph. I expected more from Shenandoah County than a pistol, that, that uniform, and a fancy hat.” He pointed his pencil disparagingly at Rulon.
Rulon shifted his weight forward and began, “Sir, I—”
“Shh,” cautioned Lovell. He spoke to the captain again. “He reckons he’s your cousin, sir.”
“I allowed him to join the company on that foundation,” Thomas Yancey said. “It won’t buy him special favors.”
“No sir,” Lovell said.
“Dismissed.”
Lovell threw Rulon a glance and motioned with his head toward the tent flap. Then he saluted, about faced, and dragged Rulon outside while he was trying to execute another salute.
Lovell maintained his hold on Rulon’s jacket until they were clear of the tent and the guard. Then he let go and grinned. “You should see your face.”
“Whew.” Rulon let out a breath, not sure if this would be an everyday occurrence or not. He brushed his hands down his uniform. “I don’t look as fine as he does.”
“Not many of us do. When we get to Harper’s Ferry, I reckon we’ll get you outfitted with the uniform pieces you’re missing and the gear you’ll need, if you didn’t bring anything more from home.”
“Saddle and saddlebags with my personal necessaries is what I brought.” Rulon felt his face go hot. Was the intense labor of his mother and sisters all for naught? He followed Lovell back to the tent where they had met.
“You’ll bunk here with me’n Owen,” Lovell said when they’d made it back.
“Owen? I’m Owen. Rulon Owen.”
Lovell grinned, showing the ubiquitous dimples. “He’s Owen Leoyd. What are the chances you two would end up in the same outfit, let alone be tent-mates?”
“What’s he like?” Rulon asked, sitting on the blanket covering the one cot out of the four in the tent that gave the appearance of being unclaimed.
“You met him over yonder, guarding the captain from the Yankees.”
“Hmm. I reckon we’ll get along all right.”
“He’s not as easy-going as me, but there’s no evil in him. I can’t say the same about the other fellow sleepin’ here. He’s over to the hospital, playing sick.” Lovell aimed a kick at the leg of the nearest cot.
“He’s not sick?”
“More like he’s perverse,” Lovell responded with some heat. “He’d as soon stick you with a knife as shake your hand.”
Rulon arose with haste. “I’m not takin’ his cot, am I?”
“No. That’s unused.”
“What’s he doing in the company?”
Lovell wore a sober face for the first time in their short acquaintance, and swore briefly. “He’s the surgeon’s pet, some kind of kin. The doc wouldn’t leave home without the rooster fart, so he dumped him on us.”
Rulon caught himself before he laughed at the man’s epithet. After he could speak without chortling, he asked, “When do you reckon he’ll show his face here again?”
“If I had my druthers, never.” Lovell took a deep breath, apparently trying to return to happier thoughts. “Likely tomorrow before we leave. The other doctors won’t keep him long before sending him on his way.”
“I reckon I have to meet him one time or another.”
“Too bad you can’t add ‘never’ to that.”
“What does the man look like? I don�
�t want to come upon him unaware and get on his bad side.”
“He don’t have a good side, Owen. Stick close to me, and I’ll endeavor to point him out before you’re obliged to meet him here in the tent.”
Rulon nodded slowly.
Lovell pulled a paper from a stack and put it on the table before Rulon, accompanied by a pen he had dipped into an inkwell. “Sign here, Owen. This says you’re bound in service to Virginia for one year.”
“I can read,” Rulon muttered as he took the pen. He bent to the task, then straightened and handed back the pen. “The fight will be over long before a year comes around. What then?”
Lovell tilted his head to one side and scratched under his chin. “I reckon the boys in charge will let us off, unless we’re needed to guard the border.”
“Let’s hope ol’ Abe Lincoln sees the right of our argument before then.”
Lovell sanded the paper, then stowed it under a paperweight. “Time for our final drill, Owen. Keep your eyes open. You have a lot to learn today, because we’ll be on the road tomorrow.”
~~~
Rulon — May 23, 1861
The next morning, Rulon awoke to the touch of a pinching hand over his mouth and the prick of a knife to his throat under one ear.
“Get outta yore cot, sissy boy. We’re packin’ up to move outta here.”
Rulon scarcely breathed. The knife’s tip moved fractionally. Then it lifted a bit, but still made contact with his skin as it traced a line across his neck toward his other ear. Lovell hadn’t been joking about the danger of this man.
“Von! Leave the man be!” Lovell’s voice barked. “Put that hog-sticker away and prepare to strike the tent.”
The man named Von growled an obscenity and removed the knife. “He’s not our kind. Look at that damn feather,” he added, gesturing toward Rulon’s fine hat. But he finally backed away, left the tent, and made his noises outside.
“Whew!” Lovell expelled a gusty sigh. “I couldn’t be sure he would obey me,” he said, approaching to eye Rulon’s neck.
By this time, Rulon had arisen and was dressing in haste.
“He didn’t leave you any permanent damage,” his new friend observed. “The sooner we can put him on a patrol against the Yankees, the sooner he’ll be able to do what he loves best.”
“What’s that?” asked Rulon, dreading the answer as he struggled to recover his dignity.
“Killin’ folks.”
~~~
As soon as the tents had been struck and stowed into a baggage wagon, the men of the Harrisonburg Cavalry were mounted and on their way to war. They made a steady progress down the Shenandoah Valley, passing through town after town where crowds gathered to cheer them on. Bands played rousing marches. Dogs nipped at the heels of the horses.
At last, Mount Jackson loomed before the troop. Rulon’ s stomach knotted with tension as he spied his father-in-law standing in the road before his store, hat uplifted. And there... there stood Mary—upright, graceful, her raven locks gleaming in the sun.
Her eyes swept the rows of horsemen, then found him. At last he was glad he was wearing the uniform and hat she could identify. She locked her gaze upon him as though to plumb the depths of his very being. She raised a white handkerchief aloft. It fluttered in the slight breeze before she brought it to her lips and bestowed a kiss upon it.
Rulon devoured the sight of her, the slender figure clothed in a summer dress of some purple stuff. She did so love the color. As he looked at her, she launched her body forward and, braving the mass of horseflesh, came to his side.
He feared for her safety, but she smiled up at him, reaching up as she kept pace with his horse, offering up the handkerchief into his hand. He took it, pressed it to his own lips, and tucked it into the front of his coat, right over his heart.
Her hand touched his lightly, and he moved to enfolded it, but she pulled free of his grasp and threaded her way among the horses to the side of the road. She had not been quick enough to prevent him catching sight of the tears beginning to fill her dark eyes.
Oh Mary. Tears? Did she fear for him? For herself? Was she ill? Ah, how heavy a burden it was to leave her behind again and go off to face an uncertain future at the hands of an unknown, uncaring foe. Would a Yankee musket ball claim his life? Make Mary a widow? Make his child an orphan?
He turned in the saddle and searched through the people standing along the way, but Mary was gone from his sight. Perhaps she was shielded from his view by larger citizens. Mayhap she had fled into the store to hide her emotions.
His heart felt as though a hand were wrapped about it, squeezing it tightly and painfully, as he rode with the troop out of the town, onward toward Harper’s Ferry.
~~~
Rod — May 26, 1861
One evening, Rod kept his sons at the table after supper, and produced a sheaf of papers and a lead pencil.
“Boys,” he said, “Rulon has gone into the fighting. Benjamin will leave soon, and so will I. I’m raising a company of cavalry.”
“Pa, you didn’t tell us,” complained Peter, running his finger in a circle on the oilcloth covering the wood table.
“You didn’t need to know,” Rod answered. “But now things are moving along, and I reckon it’s time to lay out the plan on what’s what in running the farm for your ma.”
Carl groaned and let his head fall forward. “Pa,” he said as he raised it, “we know when to plant and how to milk the cows and butcher the hogs and break the horses, and—”
“I reckon you all think you do, but there’s a good chance you could forget a thing or two of vital importance, like saving sufficient seed, and watching the mares for signs of their season so you get the best stud to cover her at the right time.” He turned to his third-born. “Peter, I’m putting you in charge of the crops. See that you don’t forget to harrow after you plow.”
“Pa,” Peter said with a snort. “I’ve done that plenty of times.”
“See you don’t forget. Carl, you’re to manage the cattle herd and the hogs. Keep track of the weather when you go to butcher, and mind that Granny sow. She’s vicious. If she weren’t such a good breeder, I would have eaten her long ago. Clay is to help you.” He looked at the younger son. “You’re a good milker, so don’t take any guff from Carl.”
It was Carl’s turn to whine “Pa,” and he took full advantage, while Clay played with his folding knife and grinned.
“James,” Rod said, pointing his pencil down the table. “You are to oversee the stable. I know you’re young, but you have more horse-sense than many grown men of my acquaintance. I’ve written down instructions on breeding the dams. I want you to keep the lines as pure as you can, so watch that stud I bought from Kentucky. He’d have his way with every mare on the place, if you’d let him.”
“Rod,” Julia called from her chair.
“I’m not tellin’ him anything he don’t already know, Julie,” he remonstrated. “Albert, you are to help Peter. Make sure the seed don’t rot from planting at the wrong time. Help your ma with the pumpkins in the kitchen patch. She don’t have to heft them when there’s a strong boy on the place.”
Albert grinned at the compliment. “Yes, Pa.”
“I’ve made lists for the chores that need to be done at certain times, and in correct order. Mind you all study them out and help each other when you’re not busy with your own tasks. Am I understood?”
“Yes Pa,” came in a chorus from both sides of the table.
Rod nodded, and passed around the pieces of paper. “You may as well keep them all together in the farm journal, in case someone takes sick or has an injury and another one of you needs to fill in.” He took a deep breath and looked at each boy in turn. “I’m putting my trust in you all to do your duty and support your mother.”
“Jerusalem crickets! I feel left out,” said Ben.
Rod narrowed his eyes at Ben while he considered if that was a profanity, or crude talk instead. Ben looked so innocent in his d
isappointment that he decided to let it go without any further notice. He looked down the table again. “You have your work cut out for you. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll start easing you into your tasks tomorrow.”
~~~
Rulon — May 28, 1861
Garth Von brought out his knife a few days later as the tent mates cooked their rations for supper. He got Rulon’s attention when he growled “Owen!” and began to stroke his bewhiskered neck from side to side with the thin blade.
Rulon tried—with little success—to suppress a shudder as he dropped a slab of pork into the kettle. What was wrong with the man? Why did he bear him a grudge? He’d not known of Von’s existence a week ago. Surely he had done nothing inside of that interval to merit such menacing behavior.
Von continued to mimic slitting a throat for several minutes, eying Rulon all the while.
Rulon’s stomach curdled with fear. He stepped back from the fire and fought the sensation, yet it sat heavily upon him. Was he a coward? He squirmed at the notion. He thought not, but he had never encountered such unwarranted ill will on the farm.
Sure, he had tussled with bullies, town boys with too much time on their hands. They were easily met, and usually beaten, at least after he began to get his growth and put weight on his spindly frame. This situation felt different, like pig iron cast from a defective mold. The man was certainly contrary, but there was something more, besides.
“He’s mad, you know,” Owen Leoyd muttered for Rulon’s ear as he broke a loaf of hard bread over his knee and handed him a chunk.
Madness. Was that what glittered in the man’s eyes, flitting away for a time, then returning, doubled in intensity?
Rulon felt the hairs on his neck raise, and knew it wasn’t due to the night air.
Von lurched forward, and Rulon threw himself backward, smacking up against Ren Lovell, spilling his tin cup of coffee.
But even as Lovell cried out in protest, Rulon saw that Von’s movement wasn’t an attack. The man thrust his knife into the kettle and stabbed the pork several times.