by Ward, Marsha
Presently, another vehicle approached, coming toward them in some haste. Poppa moved the horse from the center of the road to allow the wagon van to pass their buggy. The wagon had canvas sides, rolled down and tied, and several dark, blotchy stains on the material caught her eyes, but not before the appalling sounds of moans came to her ears. Hideous, terrible moans.
“Poppa, what is th—”
“Cover your ears!”
Her hands flew up to do so. What was causing that noise?
“Ambulance wagon,” he muttered as the din faded in the distance. “Do not look next time,” he added.
Those blotches on the sidewalls. Her heart shrank. Blood. Of course they were blood. An ambulance carried wounded men to the hospital. Were they going all the way to Staunton? She looked back, unable to restrain herself. How many of the wounded would be alive when they arrived?
Was Ben among those poor boys in the wagon?
She asked herself the same question each time they passed another ambulance, until the flood of them moving south up the pike had her sobbing, biting her veil to bits with the anxiety of not knowing the answer.
Chapter 11
Rod — July 31, 1861
Captain Roderick Owen of the Owen Dragoons mounted his mare, spur jingling as he swung his leg over and found the stirrup, feeling slightly chagrined that he was getting into the action so late. He figured all that was left was a clean-up, or some kind of defensive movement to enforce upon the Yankees the notion that everything was over but the shouting.
Julia came over and leaned against Rod’s leg. “You come back safe, husband,” she murmured in a voice stripped of emotion, as though she had spent it all. “We have that grandchild a-comin’.”
“That will be a joyous day.” He rubbed the thigh of his other leg.
“Peter?”
He barely heard her thin voice above the pounding in his chest.
“I’ll see about finding the boy after I join the regiment,” he said, putting his hand on the side of her head, lightly, briefly. “If I can locate him, I’ll send him home.”
“They won’t shoot him for desertion?”
“Nah, not that. I’ll do it proper, get him discharged for being underage.”
“Will they do that? Send him home?”
“I reckon. The government didn’t make a call for young’uns.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t see this to-do extendin’ for much longer, but he may yet have a chance to join in.”
“No.” Julia’s voice found an emotion at last as she wailed the word. “Rulon and Ben are enough to send,” she finished, head down, pressed tight against Rod’s trouser leg. “And now, you.”
“Julie,” he began, but couldn’t find any words to comfort her. Finally, he drew on the ancient faith. “Put the future in the Good Lord’s hands, woman. He will see us through.”
She let him loose and backed up, firming her shoulders. “Indeed,” she said, with one last sniff, and made a “get along with you” gesture.
Rod rode down the lane without looking back, knowing if he did, he likely wouldn’t leave his wife and home. But the pull of war was strong, and he gave in to it, even knowing what he knew of conflict, and blood, and the rancid taste of conquest.
~~~
Rulon — July 31, 1861
Rulon sat his horse in a driving rainstorm, grateful for the Federal overcoat he had acquired after the late battle. A biting wind added misery to the wet weather. Staring across the Potomac River, he could see the fortifications of the enemy capital. Soldiers drilled in the rain on a parade ground off to the left. Around the city, flag snapped so smartly on their poles he imagined he could hear them. Vidette duty often sent him within close proximity to the Yankees. In fair weather, he enjoyed acting as a sentinel for his country. This foul weather made the long hours of observation more challenging.
The wind shifted, and he adjusted his hat and collar to deflect the water attacking from a different angle. The skin of his neck seemed warm to the touch, even with the rain cooling the air. He shrugged off the notion that he might be taking sick. He didn’t have time for that nonsense.
“Owen, we’re moving back,” said Owen Leoyd.
Rulon reined the horse around to follow the other man, and experienced a momentary dizziness. It wasn’t enough to unseat him, but did give him another fleeting thought about taking ill. He shook it off as before. Too many of his comrades were sick. He couldn’t let down the company and the regiment by joining them.
Leoyd led the way to a thicket about a mile away. There the two men dismounted and sheltered as best they could as the storm beat its fury upon them.
After a while, Rulon noticed himself shaking. He hunched into the greatcoat, putting his hands up the opposing sleeves so he could rub his arms inside the wool, and then chafed his hands together. When his teeth began to chatter, he began to feel concern.
“You ailin’, Owen? Don’t you make me sick or nothin’,” Leoyd said. He had mentioned repeatedly how much he enjoyed using Rulon’s last name as much as possible as sort of a joke, seeing as how it was his own first name. He didn’t seem like he was joking now, though, as he added, “I don’t cotton to taking a fever from you.”
“It’s the cold wind,” Rulon replied. Several of the men in the regiment had been so sick they’d been discharged and sent home, and a few had even died. Rulon did not intend to be among either group.
At last the wind died down.
“We should keep our eyes peeled for the relief vidette,” Leoyd said. He squinted into the rain. “They should be along before sundown.” He chuckled wryly. “It’s not dark yet, is it? Hard to tell with all this bad weather.”
Rulon shook his head. “I reckon it’s early yet. Shouldn’t we take another look across the river?” He could barely get the words out for the tremor in his jaw that made his teeth click together.
“Nope. The Yankees are still over there, all right. I don’t figure they’re going to be doin’ any marchin’ in this rain.”
“I s-suppose you’re r-r-r-right,” Rulon stammered.
Leoyd squinted in his direction. “You better git seen by the doc when we git to camp. I don’t like the look of you.”
“You n-n-never did.”
“Well, yeah, but you look kinda mealy-mouth an’ green just now.”
“I’m fine. N-n-never b-b-better.”
“Don’t lie to me, Owen.”
“Leoyd?” A low voice called from behind them.
“Over here,” he answered. “‘Bout time you boys showed up.”
After a few verbal jabs back and forth, the new vidette took over the watch, and Rulon and Owen Leoyd made their way to their mounts and started back to camp.
“Doctor,” Leoyd muttered after a few miles.
“If I don’t f-feel better t-t-tomorrow, I’ll c-c-consider your adv-v-vice.”
~~~
Rulon — August 1, 1861
Even with his heavy wool coat pulled up over his blanket, Rulon shivered all night and awoke feeling like he’d been stomped underneath a herd of stampeding mules. His face ached, his shoulders ached, and he knew the signs of a galloping fever when he felt them.
Someone in the tent was tending the stove, from the sounds of a chunk of wood settling into the ashes, but the heat might as well be going up the chimney, for all he felt of it.
“You’ve had a chill all night,” Ren said quietly. “I recommend you get over to the hospital. I’ll cover for you at roll call.”
“I’m f-f-fine,” Rulon protested, opening his eyes to find Ren staring down at him.
“I can’t make you go,” Ren replied, “but we’re better off if you go be sick with the other fellows instead of staying here with us.” He rubbed lather onto his face. “No offense meant.”
“None t-t-taken. Do I appear to be sick?”
Ren quirked an eyebrow. “I’d say yes. No spots on you, but I’m not a medical man. Let the doc look at you.”
Rulon got up and dre
ssed as quickly as he could. “Still rainin’?” he asked, looking at his still-soggy hat.
“Not so much as yesterday. If you need help, I’m almost finished shavin’.”
“I’ll make it, thank you kindly.”
When he arrived at the hospital tent, an orderly had him wait for almost an hour before the doctor appeared to ask, “Symptoms?”
“Ch-ch-chills, f-fever, aches. P-pain in my j-jaw now.”
“You had that stammer all your life?”
“Sh-showed up yesterday with the ch-chills.”
“Hmm. Any spots?”
“Haven’t looked.”
“You a drinking man?”
“On s-special occasions, yes.”
The doctor got a bottle and tumbler, filled the glass half full of amber liquid, and thrust it into Rulon’s hand. “This is a special occasion. Drink it down. If it doesn’t help or you get further symptoms, come back tomorrow or the next day.”
Rulon looked at the doctor, then at the tumbler, then did as directed, got up, and went back toward his tent, his gullet burning, but his body warmer.
~~~
Ben — August 2, 1861
When Ben’s company had gone into camp following the battle of Manassas, he was persuaded that he ought to write home, and hunted up a pencil and paper to accomplish the task.
Dear Ma,
I reckon you will be pleased to heer that Me and the other fellows in the Company hav been fending off the foe as admirably as we can. Our Company is called “G” in the 33rd Regiment of Virginia Volunteers of Infantry. We are, as I had supposed, fightin in the Brigade of “Old Jack”. We Took part in the big Battle at Manassas junction after we rode the rail cars over hill and thru vale. I tell you, it was mighty fierce sittin atop them cars and feelin the wind pushin aganst us so hard it like to blow us away before we got to the station at M. We lost a few boys in the fight. I will mention, not to worry you, but to inform, as there is naught to worry you in the tale, that I receev’d a slight injury to my limb from a ball hitting upon a drummer boy and coming through him to smite me. I’m O.K. The Surgeon took out the ball and gave me a piece of cotton Lint to press on the scrape, and I’m right as rain now. I can’t say the same for the unfortunate drummer boy.
The sting of the gunpowder smoke gettin in our eyes and up into our noses and choking our breth was the worst part of the battle. That, and the bellowing of the Yankees long guns as they spoke out real sharp and threw their shells acrost the fields and into our lines. When we could no longer bear to receev the shells in our ranks, we broke over the crest of the rise called the Henry House Hill and battled our weigh to the long guns to silents them. When the task was done and the shelling ceased, I wondered woud I ever hear right again.
“Old Jack” has a new name, giv’n him by a General what was shot dead soon after he spoke it out. The story goes this general Bee saw our troops drawn up Firm upon the ridgeline and said somethin like “There stands Jackson like A stone Wall,” and he’s been called Stone Wall Jackson ever since. He don’t much like it, as I hear.
Give my affection to Pa and the young’uns, and accept my kiss upon your brow in grateful thanks for all you done for me thruout my years. I hope you have good news from Rulon and that he is well. Tell the rascal Peter to stop hounding you to go to war. There’s plenty of fightin to go around, but I hope his time don’t come soon to protect his native country. We bigger boys are risin to the task.
Your faithful son Benj’n
Chapter 12
Rulon — August 4, 1861
By Sunday, Rulon knew he was in trouble. With no appetite, he had grown weak over the last few days, and yesterday he had fallen from his horse. This morning he awoke with a swollen jaw and a tingling near his ear. Although he ached from the fall, he hadn’t landed on his head, so the swelling puzzled him.
He sat on the edge of his cot, hand to his ear, dizzy and faint.
“Owen, what’s wrong with your face?” Ren squatted down to get a better view.
“Swollen jaw.”
“Hmm.” Ren got up and backed away. “Mumps! You’ve got mumps.”
“No.”
“Yes. Get out of here.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Rulon admitted. He pushed himself off the cot, caught his balance, and pulled on his trousers. Ren threw him his overcoat, and Rulon picked up his hat. As he shuffled toward the flap of the tent, Ren called to him.
“Wait. This came yesterday.” He picked up an envelope from his camp desk and held it out. “From your wife, I imagine.”
Rulon reached over to get the letter, and thrust it into his pocket. All the movement made his head swim, and he stopped for a moment to get over the feeling.
“Need help getting to the hospital?”
“I’m fine,” Rulon said, his voice so weak he barely recognized it. He turned cautiously, lifted the flap, and stepped into a chilly wind.
~~~
Mary — August 5, 1861
Mary looked up from the list she was filling for Mrs. Bingham to see Miss Ella Ruth Allen hovering around the dry goods. She cast a furtive glance toward Mary.
When Mary had finished with the baker’s wife, she noticed that the girl was looking her way again, but another customer claimed her attention, and she forgot about her for a time.
Sighing when she had finished filling the order, Mary straightened her shoulders and looked around the store. Ella Ruth was still in the same spot, fingering cloth and glancing her way every three seconds.
“May I assist you?” Mary called.
Ella Ruth took a tentative step in Mary’s direction. She picked up speed, and was practically running when she reached the counter. She inclined her head as though the motion accompanied a curtsy, and said, “I am Ella Ruth Allen. Perhaps Benjamin has spoken of me?”
“Mary Owen, at your service. What may I get for you, Miss Allen?”
“Oh, you do not understand. I am not here to purchase anything. I only want—” She turned her head away sharply, sniffed, then collected herself. “I wish to know if you have heard from Benjamin.”
“Benjamin?”
“Benjamin Owen. You know who he is. Your husband’s brother?”
Now the situation came clear. This was the girl whom Brother Ben loved. Rulon had spoken of his sibling’s difficulties with obtaining permission to marry the girl. Mostly as a contrast to his own happiness. Mostly between their bouts of intimacy. Mary felt herself grow warm. She wondered if her face was glowing.
“I cannot think why Brother Ben would communicate with me,” she said, dodging the girl’s searching gaze. “Have you not heard from him?” She knew her words would sound cruel, so she had softened her tone as much as she could to deflect any implied criticism. “Perhaps he is not in a place where he can write.”
Mary watched in fascination as the girl’s face seemed to crumple into what looked like a dried-apple doll’s face.
“I, I, I would not marry him,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was too full of pride. Now he is gone, and it is too late. I am so sorry. Tell him I am sorry.”
“Brother Ben will not write to me,” Mary repeated. “There is no cause for him to do so. If he has been able to write home, Mother Owen will have his address. You must petition her for that.” Mary reached across the counter and patted Ella Ruth’s hand where it gripped the edge of the counter. “I cannot help you, although I wish I could.”
Her own happiness felt like a betrayal of this grieving girl, but that was nonsense. She barely knew her, and what she did knew of her selfish nature boded ill for any future with Ben. He had taken the rejection of his offer of marriage very hard, and had gone away with the taste of bitter ashes in his mouth.
Ella Ruth grabbed Mary by the wrist. “I cannot approach the woman. You must ask her for me. Please.” She finally seemed to notice that she was detaining Mary, and released her arm.
The gasping way in which the Allen girl said the word “please” told Mary what a price she
was paying in asking the favor. She was used to getting everything her own way in life. She had spurned Brother Ben. Perhaps she should pay for her foolishness a while longer.
But Mary knew she couldn’t poison her babe by harboring rancor. She cupped her swelling stomach behind the cover of the counter, and nodded her assent. “I will ask Mother Owen for news the next time I see her. If she has any, I will pass it along to you.”
How desperate was the countenance of the contrite girl! Mary almost felt sympathy for her plight, but not quite yet. Ella Ruth must prove her worth by coming to fetch any tidbit of information Mary might glean.
“Be here in a fortnight. I will give you any information I possess,” she said, and tried softening her demand with a smile.
“Thank you.” The girl pressed Mary’s hand between hers. “Thank you,” she said again, this time in a whisper.
As the girl left the store, Mary wondered if she would actually come through the door again.
~~~
Rulon — August 6, 1861
After two days in the hospital tent, and several draughts a day of quinine mixed in water, Rulon still hadn’t shaken off the chills and fever. His jaw ached, and now his ear was beginning to ring as though a troop of spur-jingling cavalry kept passing through his head. Worse still, he hadn’t mustered the strength to read Mary’s letter.
Feeling like a mewling new-born calf, Rulon struggled to sit up, determined that he would open the envelope at the very least. Once that was accomplished, perhaps it would be easier to read out the words she’d sent him.
When he had worked the flap loose, he saw that the letter was three weeks old, dated on the 12th of July. The first line told him Mary had confirmed her hopes that she was carrying his child. Joy surged through him, momentarily giving him the strength to sit longer and finish the letter. Further down the page, his heart lurched with additional gladness as he read that she was sure the child would be a boy. How could she know that, he wondered? He supposed her assurance came because he had so strongly and repeatedly expressed his wish for a son. She believed it because he wanted it. Dear sweet Mary.