by Ward, Marsha
Ida left the room, looking back over her shoulder, and Mary saw tears brimming in widened eyes, a demonstration of emotion so unlike the saucy girl. How long had Mama been lying here in pain? Guilt at being absent swept through her. How was she to know this day had been set aside for a birth?
“Mama, is there anything I can do to relieve your pain?”
“No,” her mother answered in the same harsh voice. “Bring my clean nightgown.” Her hand flew up, indicating the wardrobe on the other side of the room.
Mary pushed herself around the bed and found the required article, which lay apart from the other clothing on top of a stack of clean sheets and towels. Was this all designated for the birthing? She picked up the stack and went back to Mama’s side, laying the pile upon a nearby chair.
“Am I to help you change?” Mary’s voice shook. Such an intimate act was beyond the limits of her sense of modesty. Mama could not wish it of her, for her thoughts on the subject were even more extreme.
“No!” she barked. “Unless.” She waited for some reason, and Mary saw that the belly was in the grip of another contracting squeeze. “Unless she doesn’t come in time,” Mama finished her thought in a rush.
Mary fervently hoped Mrs. Bingham would do so. She had no idea of the stage of Mama’s laborings. Was she to the point of expelling the infant? How was that done? Momentary panic froze her mind. How did babies arrive? Up to this time, she’d only known that a midwife came, assisted Mama in whatever the process had been, and left, after many hours behind a shut door.
She quailed to think of the only path she knew about by which a man delivered the seed of his loins to his woman. A baby didn’t— It was impossible. The inlet was too small, too delicate, too sensitive. Her mouth dried. A baby would not fit. She squeezed her limbs together.
Her babe gave a kick as if to refute the silly notion. The purveyor of the activity would never deign to quiet himself enough to tunnel through—
“Mary,” her mother grunted. “Is Charity here?”
“No, Mama. You must hold on.”
Mama responded by gripping Mary’s hand as though it were caught in a loop of rope drawn tight by a runaway horse. She made no other sound but a low moaning from time to time that rasped against Mary’s heart, laying it open to pain and humility.
In ten more minutes, Mrs. Bingham arrived, bustling in and taking charge.
Mary sighed in relief to see the woman, and was on the verge of removing herself from the scene when Mrs. Bingham said, “Mary, help me with your mother.”
She turned, cringing. Mama would not welcome her assistance.
“Hand me the nightgown,” the woman said.
Mary went right to the pile on the chair, eyes half-closed in an effort to maintain her mother’s dignity. She heard the rustle of clothing, a sharp gasp from Mama, a word of comfort from Mrs. Bingham. When would this be finished?
A hand brushed her sleeve. The nightgown was wanted. Mary handed it over, eyes averted. Mama groaned, muffled it, tried to keep another outburst contained.
I would not keep the pain to myself, Mary thought. I believe I will scream when my time comes, if I need to do so.
She berated herself. How did she know what her reaction would be to childbearing? She might be a perfect ninny. On the other hand, it was possible she could follow her mother’s example of stoicism under travail.
The baby kicked, and she muffled her own outcry. There now. She would be silent. Strong. Brave.
Brave? What was there of bravery to stifling a great ordeal?
She ventured a glance over her shoulder. Mrs. Bingham had peeled the bed clothes back and spread a new sheet on top of the old. Mama lay upon it, clad in the nightgown, in a curled position. Her shoulders heaved as she panted.
“How bad is it?” Mary asked.
“Bad?” Mrs. Bingham gave Mary a quick glance. “It’s good, girl. She’s nearly ready.” She looked at Mary again. “You’ll be doing the same in a few months.” She raised an eyebrow. “I can’t believe how fast little Rulon Owen grew up.”
Mary’s face went hot in reaction to the comment. Mrs. Bingham knew what Rulon had done with her. Her fingers twitched. She had to get out of this room!
Mrs. Bingham chuckled. “There, there. No sense getting hot and bothered. Your ma needs you close by.”
Did the woman know her every thought?
“Hand me a towel.”
She did so, catching a glimpse of white limbs as Mrs. Bingham raised the hem of her mother’s gown and tugged it obscenely high. She turned away. What was the woman doing?
“Mary. Another towel.” A brief moment later, “Come over here.”
Mrs. Bingham’s sharp command brought her up short. She shuddered, and went to the woman’s side with the towel.
She caught herself before she said more than “Ah!” at the sight of her mother’s knees apart, white flesh spotted with blood, and the junction of her limbs bulging with a strange distortion that seemed bent upon emerging. The child!
Mary shut her eyes, trying not to faint. She felt her body quivering as Mrs. Bingham put herself in the middle of the action, holding the infant’s head and crooning words of encouragement. In making their appearance, babies did violate that sacred area. She wondered how it could survive the onslaught to be of use again.
But this was Mama’s fifth child. Five times Papa had put—
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and squeezed the fruit of her own actions. She would not think of Papa. Parents did not— Surely not so late in life.
But the evidence lay between Mrs. Bingham’s hands, coming forth from Mama’s body. Her parents had done that.
Enwrapped in Rulon’s arms, she had thought of what they did as a special act reserved for young people. Mama could not possibly take pleasure in it. She deemed it shameful. No wonder she hated Rulon so. She had no notion that such an act could be glorious and pleasurable. Poor Mama.
Mama screamed, and Mary jumped. With a squishy sound, the child popped onto the towel on Mrs. Bingham’s hands. She swiveled and gave the baby to Mary, who almost dropped the burden.
“What am I to do?” she squealed.
“Wipe the face,” the woman replied, busying herself with other matters. “Clear the mouth. Make sure it’s breathing.”
Mary stood still for a moment, overcome with the responsibility of making sure life began.
“Now, girl.”
She looked to the task, noticing that she had a new sister, and gave a moment of thought to her father’s wish for a son. Not this time. Would there be another? She doubted it as the baby took breath and wailed.
~~~
Rulon — November 28, 1861
28th Nov’br, 1861
Near Fairfax C-H
My belov’d wife,
The days grow shorter. The army is quiet, and long evenings of Idleness beside the fire strech before me. I think of you and the preshus burden you carry under yor heart. Several other fellows in The Troop have left their wives in a Delicate condition. Not long ago we discussed what Names our young’uns should carry. If it be in accordince with your Favor, I should Like for my Our Son to bear the name of my Father, Roderick Owen. He is a stalwart man, and worthy of such Respect and Honor. If it should be within my Pow’r, I will be there for our Child’s birth, but I do not kno what God or the Fates has in store for my appointments at that time.
I can only think of You, dear heart. My arms ache to hold you again, even more so since you had the Likeness made and sint to me and I can gaze upon your sweet Face once more. I kiss the Likeness a dozen times a day, pretendin it is you, my Darling. Alas it is not. There is no warmth of flesh Beneath my fing’rtips, no sweet breath coming from between The lips portraied with such realism. I yearn for the day when I can gaze upon the true Face and not the likeness, kiss the dear lips of flesh and Blood, and explore the delights that entranced Us in days of yore.
Receev a kiss from me upon your brow and upon your lips. Extend it to o
ur Son, residing in warmth and comfort within his mother’s woom. How I wish I could be by yor side, to hold you close and sooth your burdens and wipe away yor despair. I am yor true love, and my body and vig’r are yors alone.
Ever, yor Rulon
~~~
Mary — December 14, 1861
Wondering what Christmas would be like during a war, Mary tried to be cheerful for the sake of her younger sisters, but the absence of her husband and the unsteady gait caused by her increased weight pulled her spirits downward. Although no word had been published of conflicts with the Federal army, the men defending Virginia and the Confederacy had not come home during the cold weather, as her father had said they would. This was a grave disappointment, but with the excitement of a new baby in the house, Mary was putting the best face possible on her outlook for the holidays.
Papa brought the mail home at noontime, and there was a letter for her! She snatched it away from his hand, and opened it in the kitchen with the aid of a sharp knife.
“My belov’d wife,” Rulon had written. Mary could have burst into tears at the swell of emotion this brought forth, but if she did, she would wash out the ink, so she restrained herself and commenced to read of her husband’s desire that she name the child for his father.
“Mama wants her dinner right away,” Ida said as she entered the kitchen. She paused to look at Mary’s rapt attention to her mail, and said in a nasty tone, “Stop lally-gagging around with that moon face and dish it up. I’m giving you fair warning. Don’t you dare be as demanding as Mama when you drop that brat.”
It was all Mary could do to keep from slapping Ida’s insolent face, but she gathered her wits without a retort and folded the letter to tuck it into her apron pocket, out of sight. When would this war be over so she and Rulon could get their own place?
When dinner was finished, Papa had returned to the store, Mama was placated, and the dishes were washed and put away, Mary retired to her room to read the rest of Rulon’s letter. She put her hand into her pocket as she sat, but her fingers did not find the precious envelope. She stood, digging deeper into the material, but her letter was not in evidence.
Horror rising in her throat, Mary clung to the bannister as she made her way as quickly as she could back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Where had she been standing? There, beside the food safe. But she could see nothing on the floor. Of course. Sylvia had swept. She went to the dust bin. Nothing. Had the letter been kicked underneath the food safe or a cabinet? How was she to find it if it had? As big and ungainly as she was now with her belly full of child, she would never be able to get down on her hands and knees to look. Even if she did get down on the floor, she would never be able to get up again.
Sobbing now, Mary tried to get the broom underneath the most likely hiding spots, but she could coax nothing from beneath them. Again and again she tried to maneuver the broom straws to her advantage, but it was not to be. Wherever the letter had gotten to, it was as good as lost.
~~~
Rulon — December 31, 1861
Dec 31, 1861
Below Fairfax CH
Dearest Mary,
It is the last day of the year as I rite to you. We have past a joyful Christmas in our tents on the Cemetery road. One fellow got his father to send him a cask of brandy to celebrate the Holiday, which he shared out to the company. I admit I took a sip of the stuff, but being only lately recovered of my good health, I felt it the better part of good sense to forbear imbibing a greater amount.
We received presents gathered by ladies of the Lutheran church in Richmond. shirts, blankets and shoes were much appreciated by the boys and me. A blanket made of wool was my portion, which I gratefully accepted. The minister brought us the gifts, adding small Testaments for each man. For myself, I am happy to have The Word about my person.
Our corporal, Ren Lovell, says this place is unhealthy, and I believe that to be true, as there has been much sickness in the regiment. We have even suffered a number of deaths unrelated to wounds received on the field of battle.
Our Captan is one whose health has not been good. He was away from the company for ten days earlier this month, and has just returned yesterday. Ren says the rumor is he has been taken with a typhoid fever. You must join your prayers with mine for his rapid recovery.
Sweet Mary, we did not speak much of our Christian Faith before we joined together in wedded bliss. This was a sore neglect on my part, as I was to be the head of our union and your guide in spiritual matters. I regret not discussing this with you. I will state that I have an abiding Faith in the goodness of God and His Holy Son, Christ Jesus. It is my hope that yor faith is in Him, as it is good to be equally yoked in Christ. I count my parents as a good example of being equally yoked. Pa has led the family in nightly devotions as long as I can remember, with Ma at his side. If it is agreeable to your dear self, I wish to do the same when we are once more united. How I long for that day of reunion. May the new Year bring it about.
Yor own Rulon
After he had taken his letter to be posted to Mary, Rulon kissed his wife’s likeness, wrapped up in his Christmas blanket, and lay staring into the embers flickering in the fireplace they had built for the tent. When sleep did not close his eyes, he wondered what he had forgotten to do. He grunted softly as he remembered professing his beliefs to his wife; perhaps he should end the day with prayer.
He hoped Garth Von was asleep as he hoisted his legs over the edge of the cot and knelt beside it. For once, he was unmolested as he asked for safety for his wife, the coming child, his captain and the cause of the Confederacy, then tacked on a postscript concerning himself.
By the time he got back onto his cot, the cold of night had deepened, and he shivered until his body warmth filled the blanket cocoon and he relaxed into sleep.
~~~
The prick of a well-honed knife point just below his chin brought Rulon awake. He held himself rigid as Von’s low chuckle reached him.
“Thought I didn’t see, did you?” He swore, then spit out, “Think you’re better ‘n me, with your Shenandoah pathway to heaven? Want to be a martyr, boy?”
Then he was gone as though he had not been poised to slit Rulon’s throat. The tent flap rustled and cold air entered, but it could not chill Rulon’s blood more than it already was. He got up and went through his pack until he had his pistol in hand, loaded and primed.
Owen Leoyd mumbled, “What’s the matter, Owen?”
Rulon licked his lips and cleared his throat before he got out an answer. “Von.” He took two quick breaths before adding, “I’d like to relieve him of that hog-sticker someday, and cut a boil or two off his butt.”
Owen chuckled. “Good luck to you. He sleeps light.”
“Mayhap I should learn the trick,” Rulon muttered as he lay down with the pistol at his side.
In a few moments, the flap twisted once more, and Von came in, cursing the cold, the lack of a wind-proof privy, and Rulon. The man made no further attempt toward violence, however, and when he began to snore, Rulon let his grip on the pistol relax.
Chapter 17
Ben — January 26, 1862
As soon as his sodden company entered the camp near Winchester and erected a tent, Ben found his pent-up emotions over being half dead from exposure to the cold needed an outlet.
Ma would frown on any communication that had the least bit of complaint. He was sure of that, so writing a letter home was out of the question. He pulled out a sheaf of letters he had received from Miss Allen, all unanswered. Perhaps it was not too late for him to write to her. Would she censure him on account of his lack of civility in replying?
He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he had to write to someone who cared for his welfare. Perhaps Miss Ella Ruth would welcome some kind of word from him, even though it be full of an excess of frustration.
He began reading again the letters she had sent to him. The first, which he had wondered if she wrote as a civic exercise, was quite intimate fo
r a first communication. It was the one in which she had begged his forgiveness for her rejection of his love.
A second letter had followed, and she had not again petitioned for a restoration of their friendship. Indeed, she had been bold enough to write as though he had agreed. He had wondered at the time he received the note why she had been so sure he would accept a renewed friendship with her, and had put off replying, just as he had put off answering the first letter.
By the time the third missive had appeared, Ben’s feelings in the matter had become quite soothed, but still, he did not find the time to answer her almost brazen remembrance of a certain tryst within a potting shed where he had tried mightily to seduce her, and she had withstood his advances. He read again her mention of how close she had come to giving in to his caresses.
He hesitated before he reread the fourth letter. He had received it just before the regiment’s trek to Romney, and he had not had time to formulate a reply, although he knew at the time that he would have to do so soon. Almost a month had passed since then. He could not forget the words she had written professing to love him, and telling him how she had pressed each and every letter she had written to him to her lips in multiple places so that he might feel the warmth of her affection. Even now, he could almost feel his fingertips burning as he held the sheet of paper. He wondered if the married fellows in the company received such astounding letters from their wives. He had not dared to bring up the subject to the men, and then all desires had been squelched in the snow and sleet of their expedition.
He thought very carefully for five minutes on how he should begin his side of the correspondence, then threw all caution to the wind and began as he felt, calling her his darling Ella Ruth.
He filled two sheets of paper, put down his pencil, and began to re-read the letter before he sealed it. He almost blushed to see his words of yearning instead of complaint. Let the snow fall. Let the wind howl. He had warmed to his subject, and did not regret a single word of affection. Although his pride had taken a severe blow when she had refused to marry him, he knew now he had never ceased to love Ella Ruth. For all her follies and foibles, he wanted her more now than ever, and looked to a day when he could flee warfare and begin a new life as her protector and husband.