by Ward, Marsha
Exhausted from the effort of reading the letter, Rulon lay back on his cot, his eyes wet from emotion. Yes, he had said he wanted a son. He didn’t know much about young’uns and how they formed in the mother’s womb, but he imagined the outcome was fixed by now.
A young’un. A child. He was going to be a father. He sucked in a long breath. He hadn’t been much interested, as his brothers and sisters came along, in the months of progress toward what women called “the happy event.” His happy event. Would this fussing and fighting be over in time for him to be there when Mary brought forth his son?
He thought about Mary. What was she going through? What would she endure when the time came to birth his child? He’d never wanted to know about the birthing part of the child-bearing process.
Would she suffer during her travail? The word itself brought to mind adversity. Burdensome toil. Pain. He shuddered to think about what women must suffer in delivering the young of mankind. Ah, Mary. She was such a little thing. She surely would be inconvenienced by giving birth. Might she die?
But Ma hadn’t— He cringed. His mind would not even go toward relating the totality of such events with his mother. She was Ma! She never even—
After a long moment of the blankness of avoidance, he had to admit that she and Pa must have done some measure of... getting together, else they would not now have their sons and daughters.
He wiped his feverish face. He must be hallucinating to be thinking of carnal knowledge in the same context as his parents. But no. He was lucid. This was real. He held Mary’s letter here in his hand, and he returned to worrying about her in the coming travail. It was true Ma had not died in birthing ten children, but he had heard her mutter something daunting about “the valley of the shadow of death” before Julianna put in her appearance.
He would have to redouble his prayers, make a greater effort to live a stalwart life in order that God would bless Mary in her hours of pain and labor and giving birth.
When she had successfully come through that time, he was going to be a father.
What kind of father would he be? Strong and autocratic, like his own? Of a willy-nilly persuasion who sought the fashion of the moment, like a man he knew in New Market? Stern, but fair to his children? What if this young’un was a daughter, instead of a son? Could he be kind, but firm, to keep her safe from predators? Predatory males, like, like, himself?
He thought long and hard about the concept that the coming child could be a tender daughter who needed a father on hand to protect and cherish her. He had to make it through this illness, this war against the Yankees. Son or daughter, it really didn’t matter now. Sometime early next year, he needed to be home to welcome the new little one into his heart and home.
“God, let me live to see my child,” he whispered. “Don’t let me die in camp because of the mumps.” Annoyingly, his eyes leaked as he said the words, and he had to wipe them furtively.
He didn’t know if mumps was a fatal disease. The doctor had said it was usually one of the ailments a child went through, but hadn’t added whether or not children died from it, like they often did with the measles, which thankfully, he’d survived. How he’d avoided contracting this mumps illness up to now was a mystery to him.
The doctor had mentioned one other thing, and Rulon thought on it now, wondering if he should include a special appeal to God about it in his improvised prayer. He finally decided that given the risk, he would take a chance on annoying God with the plea.
“Dear God,” he started again, whispering as before. “Don’t let my parts swell up.”
The doctor had told him to take notice if his “testicles” became swollen, and to let him know if they did. Rulon had asked for a translation of the unknown word, and was horrified to be told what it meant, and that he might lose the power to engender children should the ailment spread to that site.
“Please,” he added, knowing his vanity had partially prompted him to ask this boon, but hoping such a thing was important to a God he had been taught was the Father of All. Mary wanted several children, and the thought that a misplaced childhood disease could rob her of that fulfillment had been causing him a good deal of anguish. “Thank you for any mercy you can spare to Mary an’ me,” he concluded his appeal, and turned his head so his tears would be less apparent to the other patients in the tent.
~~~
Mary — August 9, 1861
“Mother Owen,” Mary greeted her mother-in-law later that week. “Welcome. That is a fine basket of eggs.”
“And here is a can of cream,” Julia said, indicating the metal armful Albert bore into the store.
“Cream! That is priceless these days,” Mary said. She patted the counter, and Albert hoisted his burden onto it, then moved off to explore the inventory.
“How are you, my dear?”
“I feel better on some days than others. Today has been a good day. Do you suppose the sickness will lessen in time?”
“Most times it does, Mistress Mary. How long has it been, now?” She ticked months off on her fingers. “Almost three months gone. I predict a spate of better times a-comin’.”
“That will be most gladsome.” Mary gave in to the desire to covertly pat the place on her abdomen that would be expanding more each future day. “Are all well in the family?” she asked in order not to neglect the social niceties.
“As well as can be expected, I reckon. We miss those not present, but are doing our best to carry on with the chores.” Julia lifted her hands in resignation. “Mr. Owen apportioned the tasks to the boys, but we miss Peter’s help. The scamp!”
“Have you had news from your sons?”
“Rulon has had the most time to send a letter, and I have received his. I have not heard from Ben or Peter. Or Mr. Owen,” she added.
“I am sure you will hear from all of them, given time,” Mary said, hoping her words would comfort her mother-in-law. “You might be surprised to learn that I had a visitor on Monday.”
“Not the monthly?” Julia’s face grew grave.
“Oh, no. No. I mean Miss Ella Ruth Allen came into the store to speak to me.”
“That girl?”
“I know she rejected Brother Ben’s offer of marriage. It appears she has repented of her pride. She seemed very contrite for her actions.”
“What did she want with you?”
“She asked for news from Brother Ben. I reckon she also wants to obtain his address for correspondence.”
“Hm. I wonder if he will welcome that from her.”
Mary shrugged her shoulders. “I agreed to ask you for an address, once you have one to share, of course. If she has the gumption to attempt to correspond after turning him off, I figure she deserves the chance to ask for forgiveness, at the least.”
Julia sighed. “Mary, you have the right of it. When Ben deigns to write, I will bring you the particulars.”
“Thank you, Mother Owen. I knew you would rise to your good reputation.”
“My good reputation?”
“Miss Allen was afraid to approach you. I told her how good you are. Perhaps one day she will have the courage to speak to you herself.”
“You’re a caution, daughter Mary. Talkin’ me up that-a-way. I’m plain Julia Owen. She has no reason to fear me.”
“I’m hoping she will come to know that, ma’am.”
Chapter 13
Rulon — August 10, 1861
Throughout the week, Rulon suffered a great deal of pain from his ailment. He began to write a rough journal of what was happening to him in case he didn’t survive the disease, and got Ren to promise he would send the account of his illness to Mary in that event.
He wrote of fever coming and going, of nights of torment spent pacing beneath a tent upon which drummed incessant rain, of keen pains darting through his jaw and each tooth, of muscles and nerves jerking and quailing at the pain, of tremors, then more pain that the doctor could not ease.
One night he found that sitting alongside
the stove with his mouth full of cold water brought a small amount of relief. Finally, the pain, fever and swelling abated, and he looked forward to being discharged the next morning.
He awoke while it was yet dark and screamed in agony. The other side of his jaw had risen in the night, and all the pain, fever, and throbbing were back. One of the men assigned to nurse the patients came running with a light, and tried to shush him.
“Quiet, man. What ails you?” He held up the light, then swore when he saw Rulon’s cheek. “That must pain you a mite.”
Rulon tried to tear his jaw off to relieve his distress, but the nurse tied his hands down and summoned the physician.
The doctor swore in his turn. “It’s four o’clock in the morning. Keep silent!”
Rulon clamped his teeth shut, shame crowding him into desperation. He thrashed on the cot. He could not endure this torture further. He wanted to die.
“Oswald, bring me the laudanum.”
“Should you waste it on him?”
“Do as I say.” The doctor flung out his arm, indicating his disgust. “Dying men shouldn’t deal with all this noise.”
Sometime after the doctor administered part of a tumbler of bitter liquid to him, Rulon began to drift in a half-lit world of haze and buzzing. Then he went into a dark place and knew no more.
When he awoke to full sunlight, he vowed to comport himself with more order despite the pain, and apologized to his fellow patients. When he was allowed to go relieve himself, he discovered that his worst nightmare had become reality. Harboring icy despair at his predicament, he asked to speak to the doctor.
After an examination, the man said, “The swelling is not severe. Time will tell if there is a diminishment in your vigor. You have a wife?”
Rulon could hardly bear to speak. “Yes,” he finally said through gritted teeth.
“Children?”
“One coming soon,” he managed.
“That’s good. You’ll have one child, at least. Bear up, man. Another two weeks and you’ll be in the field again.” The doctor gave Rulon a pat on the shoulder, a curt nod, and then hurried off.
Rulon lay down, the pain in his soul vying with the pain in his jaw for supremacy.
~~~
Rod — August 11, 1861
Having arrived at his duty post, Rod wrote home to Julia.
11th Aug’st 1861
Outside Charles Town, Via.
My dear Wife,
I take pencil in hand to inform you of my safe arrival to the place of our posting. The Men of the Owen Dragoons have covered themselves with glory in the past week, firstly, in arriving without incident, and secondly, in defending the Bord’r with dispach and zeel.
We have been assigned to tear up rails and Ties from the Baltimore & Ohio Rail Raod so that the Enemy does not have Use of it to invade our Land. Deer Wife, yu shoud see the hearty manner in wich my boys attack there task. Altho we do not ride as much as sum woud like, whatever we are commanded to do is honorabl, as I tell the boys.
Do you heer from our Sons who are servin the Comnwelth of Virginia? My hope is that they will bear themselves well and bring honor to the Owen Name.
My devoshun to you is without ceasin. Embrace the young’uns for me, and acept a kiss upon yor brow from
Yor husband,
Capt’n Roderick Owen
Commanding, Owen Dragoons
7th Reg’ment Via. Cav.
~~~
Mary — August 14, 1861
Mary sat at the table one evening, picking at her food. Nothing appealed to her. Some of the odors made her gag. The stink of the cabbage was insufferable. She passed the dish to Ida as quickly as she could.
Ida thrust an elbow into her side. “Don’t throw up on me,” she warned in a hiss.
“I’m not sick,” Mary hissed back.
“You look green. Excuse yourself.”
“I’m not ill,” Mary repeated, a little louder.
“Mary,” her mother’s voice broke in. “Are you ailing? If that is the case, it would be best if you left the table.”
“I am not ailing,” Mary reiterated. “I merely do not have a strong appetite this evening.” She laid her fork on the oilcloth. “Was there a post today?”
“No letters,” Mr. Hilbrands announced.
Mary felt her blood congeal in her veins. No letters. No word from Rulon again today. Weeks had passed since she had received a message from him. She hadn’t read of any battles since the big one at Manassas. What was going on? Was he ill, injured, dead?
“Did the Rockingham paper arrive?” Perhaps that weekly newspaper carried additional information about Rulon’s company that the papers from New Market and Woodstock did not.
“I expect it tomorrow, daughter.”
She felt like screaming, pulling on her hair, falling to the floor and drumming her heels on the carpet. That would get her nothing but a reprimand from her mother. Every day Mama found a new fault to point out, a new action that didn’t suit her fancy, for which she spoke to Mary as though she were a naughty child.
I wish I had never pressed Rulon to let me live with my parents, she thought. How much better it would be to live at the Owen farm. But the die had been cast, and she knew her mother would not let her move from the house now.
She held her breath for a moment, then let out a sigh. “I believe I am ailing after all,” she said. “With your permission, I’ll retire.”
She scooted back her chair and escaped the room as quickly as she could. Oh Rulon. Please be in good health. Please come home soon.
~~~
Peter — August 18, 1861
After thinking for a long time about how to couch his first letter home, on a bleak Sunday Peter finally decided he knew what to write.
18 August 1861
Der Pa and Ma,
I greet you with tha hope that yu are all well at home. I regret that I took off in such a great hurry and was neglectful about sayin my goodbyes. My intent never was to hurt you. and I hope you will be forgivin of my tresspass. I reckon a man is obliged to be about the busines of defending his country from the invader.
The Rangers have been put into the 7th Virginia Cavalry Regim’t commanded by Colonel Angus Wm McDonald. He is an older man, but spry enuf despite a bad case of rumitizm. I hav been took into several brawls with the Yankees from which I emerged unskathed except for a paltry sabr cut upon my side wich is healin nicely. I wil bear a pretty scar to show my future wife as proof of my valor in battel.
Not havin much else to report, I will end. again beggin your forgiveness for the manner in which I took myself and the horse Brownie off from the place. Give my affection to my brothers and sisters. Tell Marie I miss her shortbread. We count ourselves lucky if we eat twice a day, and then our meals are beans and hardtack biskets.
I send you my deepest regards and love,
Yor son Peter
~~~
Mary — August 19, 1861
On the 19th of August, Mary had conquered her stomach enough to show up for work in good time, and was removing the dust cloths covering the goods set up in the windows when she heard a tap on the front door. She looked out the glass pane to discover Ella Ruth Allen outside, an anxious expression on her face.
Mary unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
“We have not yet begun the day,” she said after giving her a brief greeting.
“Please, won’t you admit me? Father is on his way to the courthouse and agreed to let me come to buy a trifle if I didn’t delay him but five minutes. I haven’t a moment to spare. Please?”
The young woman’s use of the word ‘please’ twice impressed Mary as to the urgency of her errand, and she bade her enter. “What trifle did you have in mind to buy?” she asked, turning to the wares.
Ella Ruth raised her shoulders, evidently in a protective motion, as she wrung her hands. “That was a subterfuge,” she finally said. “I came for news of Benjamin. Do you have any word? An address where I might write him
?”
Mary studied the pinched face, and put out her hand to lay it on Ella Ruth’s. “You must compose yourself,” she said.
Ella Ruth’s face blanched. “Ah!” she wailed. “He is gone?”
“No. No, no. I merely mean that Mother Owen has not heard from him as yet. However, you may take comfort that his name has not been published on a list. Come back on Monday next. Perhaps there will be word this week.”
Ella Ruth sighed raggedly. “Thank you for your kindness. You are a dear girl. I am sure your husband is happy in his choice of a bride.” She cast her eyes down, then up again. “Are you well? You seem a trifle pale.”
“I am as well as may be,” Mary replied, with a small, secretive smile she kept from blossoming further with strong effort.
“What do you mean?”
“I am to have a child,” she answered, and could not restrain her lips from their upward course.
Ella Ruth looked stricken. “If only, ah, if only I had not been prideful, I might have been even now carrying a child of my own. Benjamin’s child.”
Mary wondered if Ella Ruth realized how unseemly her thought was. She and Brother Ben were not married, and she should not talk of such things.
Ella Ruth spoke again. “I wish you every happiness, Missus Owen.” She clasped her entwined fingers in front of her face, and seemed about to burst into tears.
Mary said nothing for a moment, then decided she must be gracious. “You’re very kind in giving me that sentiment, Miss Allen. You may yet rejoice in a happy interval of your own. Rulon tells me this conflict cannot last for long. He and Brother Ben and the rest of the family will surely return soon.”
“I can only pray for that glorious day,” Ella Ruth squeezed out in a choked voice. “Thank you once more for being my intermediary. My go-between,” she hastened to explain. She looked out the window. “I must go now. Poppa will be waiting.”
“Do not forget your trifle, Miss Allen,” Mary said, fishing out a stick of peppermint candy from a jar and wrapping it quickly in brown paper. “Here now. Take it. You have need of a smile.”