by Ward, Marsha
“What does he want?” Mary asked her mother.
“He is most likely hungry, if he has not wet himself” she said, and approached the bed. “You must give him suck.”
Mary touched her bodice above her swollen breast, self-conscious in the presence of her mother. “Will it hurt?” she whispered.
“I do not recall any pain,” Amanda said, her words clipped. “Merely put him to the teat. He will know what to do.” She hoisted Eliza into a more comfortable position, nodded once, and left the room.
Mary slowly unbuttoned her bodice, making shushing sounds all the while to try to appease her squalling infant. She wanted to join him in his howls, but that would never do. She must now be the adult lady she professed to be, and give her child sustenance.
Roddy did not know what to do when Mary brought him to her breast. He rooted around, whimpering, but did not seem to know what to do with his mouth, which Mary imagined was supposed to clamp around her tender nipple, or something of the sort. She tried guiding his efforts, but he would not take it into his mouth, preferring to cry instead.
After a while, she had joined him, weeping in frustration and pain. Even when she tried to squeeze out liquid, none appeared, and she only succeeded in making herself sore.
Was he only wet? She discovered that he was not, but could not ease his distress.
After at least an hour of the most humiliating effort that Mary had ever experienced, the baby had exhausted himself with crying, and fell into a fitful sleep. She sat with him resting on her lap, weeping silent tears, her shoulders shaking convulsively.
A rap sounded on the door, and immediately thereafter, it opened. A dark woman not much older than herself appeared in the doorway. “Pardon, ma’am,” she said. “The lady says I am to nurse the boy baby for you.”
Mary endeavored to compose herself in the face of this stranger. “My mother brought you here?”
“I comes from Mount Airy,” the girl explained. “Your mama have rented me.”
“Rented you? To feed my child? I don’t even know who you are.”
“Marse Meem call me Pansy, ma’am. I’s a wet nurse.” She gestured to her bosom. “I has milk, ma’am, for the young’un.”
Mama’s repentant spirit has not lasted for long, Mary thought as she felt Roddy stir against her limbs. Their voices must have disturbed him, and he worked himself awake and resumed his wails.
Embarrassed, Mary held him out to the Negro girl. “Feed him,” she said, barely able to restrain her own wails as the girl took him and went to the chair beside the bed.
As her baby began to suck greedily at the dark breast, Mary sank into her pillow and turned away, trembling with shame that she could not fulfill her most basic role as a mother, that of suckling her own child.
Chapter 18
Mary — February 26, 1862
A week later, Mary got herself out of bed, lit a candle, pulled on a dressing gown, and took on the task of writing a letter. She had neglected her correspondence with Rulon for some time, and it pained her to admit her sloth. But if truth be told, she had been under a great strain of late, what with her baby’s birth last week and all the turmoil afterward. Now it was past time for her to catch her husband up on those matters.
Biting her lip, she began:
26 February, 1862
My darling Rulon,
I send news which I hope is agreable to you. On Wednesday last I was delivr’d of a helthie baby boy. Yor wishes prevailed over those of my mother, and I have named the child Roderick Rulon Owen. Yor ma recorded the name for me so my moth’r could not have her way.
I hope you do not mind that I put your name to the boy along side that of yor father, as you had asked for. I call the baby Roddy, as he is much too tiney to bear yor papa’s long name at present.
Sister Marie brought baby Roddy the most cunning rattle, whittled out by Carl, I believe, or perhaps James. I fear I am distracted by dificulties I have experinced folowing the birth.
I hope to use the rattle to appease Baby when he cries from hunger. I continue trubled with diffacultyies failing in giving him su feeding him properly. He is not patient with me. Mama brings in a wet nurse to feed the boy, but it distreses me sorely to see Baby fed by a slave girl rented from Mount Airy. Such a scene harows me with guilt that I cannot do my duty as well as he demands. He is a very robust child. I promise I will continue my efforts to feed him.
Dearest husband, please take all mesures to avoid harm’s way. Altho we do not hear of battels with the foe as yet, I pray The Telegraf does not return to bringin in horible casualty lists like we read last summ’r. They were most distresing. I prey for you nite and morning, for my bosom aches with fear over yor well-being as the seas’n for war approches.
Plese excuze my poor spelling. I cannot seem to make my brain fathum the proper letters I need to express myself to you.
Accept the kiss I place upon this X as tho it was put upon yor brow by my own lips. It is ment to convey all the love of my heart to you.
Yor wife,
Mary
She finished, tongue sticking out from between her bitten lips, and paused to place a kiss upon the mark. Then she shook sand over the ink. She carefully poured it back into the shaker, folded the paper as though it were an envelope, turned it over, and affixed Rulon’s last known address.
She heard Roddy stirring in his cradle at the foot of her bed, and hurried her task as he began to cry.
Mary sealed the improvised flap shut with a few drippings from her melting candle, wishing she had a grand signet ring to press into the wax seal. She shrugged, used her thumb to smash it flat instead, then winced at the momentary burn.
“There,” she said, satisfied that she had finished the long-pending task. “I have suffered long, husband,” she said to the letter as she quickly moved it through the air in order to cool the seal. “The baby is crying. I had better go try to feed him with these poor, chapped breasts, or Mama will interfere again.” She stuck her burned thumb in her mouth to alleviate the pain, and leaving the letter on the table, prepared to attempt to nurse her son.
~~~
Julia — February 28, 1862
When Julia had finished her town business at the Hilbrands store on Friday, she began to pull herself up into the buggy for the return trip home, but something stopped her, and she put her foot back on the ground.
She looked in the buggy. Her egg basket, now heaped with parcels, lay on the floor of the vehicle. Had she forgotten some task, an item she was to buy or sell? No. Had she neglected to ask for the mail? The envelope addressed to her in Rod’s firm hand that seemed to burn a hole in her pocket belied that notion.
Her grandchild. Oh lordy, she had forgotten to pay a visit to Mary and the baby!
Taking herself in hand, she walked around the block to the Hilbrands’ home and let the knocker fall on the brass plate. Ida bade her enter, and she soon knocked on Mary’s door.
She found the girl in her bed, in tears, her bodice open, and the baby lying across her limbs squalling in counterpoint to his mother.
“Ah, Mary girl! What’s this?” She picked up Roddy and put a finger into his mouth. “Shush, sweet boy. Shush,” she crooned.
“I am a failure,” Mary wailed. “I cannot feed him.” She covered her face. “Mama rents a wet nurse.”
“There, there.” Julia tried to sooth both mother and son.
Mary put her hands across her bosom and gasped out, “I’ve tried so hard. Mama says they are too small, which prevents the milk from coming.”
“Nonsense,” Julia said. “I am small, and have not lacked milk for my young’uns.” She bounced Roddy as she commenced walking about the room. “You are anxious. That is causing the stoppage.” She returned to the side of the bed. “Have you been up? Hasn’t it been two weeks now since he came along?”
Mary shook her head. “I am to stay quiet until I cease passing blood.”
Julia raised her eyebrows. “That will take a time. You mus
t arise and go on livin’. Activity will stimulate the milk. The baby’s cries should also help.”
“They swell,” Mary said, sniffing. “Nothing lets loose.”
“May I see them?”
Mary allowed her to view one breast, then the other.
“There is chapping, but perhaps no fever. May I touch?”
Mary drew a sharp breath. She let it out slowly. “Must you?”
“I think it’s needful,” Julia replied, and put out her hand to check for a raised temperature in the skin. “Ah, yes. This one requires a warm, wet cloth applied here for fifteen minutes at a time, once an hour, until you feel relief. Do not nurse from it until the redness goes out of it. I would not recommend a mustard plaster, but perhaps a warm poultice once a day.” She explained which herbs should be mixed for the application. “And you must get out of bed. You will only wither, lying in bed all the day. That is not healthy.”
Mary began to cry. “Why doesn’t Mama tell me these things?”
“She is not forthcoming in such matters,” Julia explained. “You know her reticence about physicality. You must bear affection for her in spite of her foibles.”
“I do love my mother. Whether she returns the feeling is in question.”
“Then now, girl. You know she loves you. She is goin’ through her own child-bearin’ cycle, and a surprise it was, too. Give her time to return to normal.”
“She is usually affectionate and kind. I have missed that in her.”
“We have all, none more so than your pa.” Julia smiled. “You may have noticed that menfolk need affection more than women.”
“Papa? He’s busy with his work.”
“Don’t you go to thinkin’ that he has no need of your mother’s time and care.”
Mary shuddered. “He’s my papa.”
“He’s a man. Like your own.”
“Please, Mother Owen.”
Julia laughed. “I have embarrassed you. I beg your pardon. At times I speak too plainly for my own good.” She stooped and helped Mary out of the bed and into the chair alongside it. Then she gave Roddy to her. “Put him to the breast and think of a pleasant scene.” She continued with advice in a soothing voice. “Lean back against the cushion. Feel its softness enveloping you. Here. Try this with your fingers.” She showed Mary how to guide her nipple into Roddy’s mouth. “It will soon be second nature to you, if you will heed my words. Remember to be calm. Don’t think about difficulty. Think of pleasant views.”
“He is sucking,” Mary said. “He has not done that before.”
“Relax,” Julia advised in a low tone. “Rain coursin’ down a window pane. Water squeezed from a sponge. Sippin’ warm milk from a cup.” She could see Mary lowering her hunched shoulders. “That’s the way, girl. Give the babe of your strength.”
“I am not strong,” Mary murmured.
“More than you suspect,” Julia answered. “More each passin’ day.”
~~~
Mary — March 4, 1862
Mary cowered in the cellar of the house, arms wrapped around her baby. Another shell whistled overhead and exploded in the distance. Ida shrieked in her ear, and Mary elbowed her sister in an attempt to quiet her. Sylvia and India huddled together. Mama sat in the corner, covering Baby Eliza with her shawl.
Poor Papa. He must be taking cover in the storeroom, Mary thought. She was glad the little girls had come home for dinner. She wondered how long the school would remain open. She shuddered at a boom that was too close at hand. God, help us, she begged. Help Rulon. She wasn’t sure where he was now. She had lost track of all the different armies while these invaders were threatening her baby’s life. God, please don’t let them kill my baby.
Dust drifted down from the ceiling as a shell thudded into the ground nearby. Sylvia and India joined Ida’s outcry, and now Roddy also raised his voice.
“Hush, hush,” she said, trying to sooth him.
Mary could hear little Eliza greedily sucking from her mother’s breast, unheeding of the bombardment. Why is it so easy for Mama to give nourishment and at the same time, she prohibits me from doing so? she wondered. I will not let her rent the wet nurse again.
She had been putting the warm herbal compresses upon her sore breast, as Mother Owen had advised, and the infection had now gone. It was time to be the strong mother Rulon’s mama thought her to be.
Defiantly, Mary opened her bodice, brought Roddy to her breast, and concentrated on remembering what Mother Owen had told her.
“You must relax,” she had said. “Do not pay heed to your bosom or to pain. Think of a pleasant scene, a meadow with sheep grazing, or the mountains beyond the river. Think on the flow of water. Be peaceful in your soul, and milk will come through to the boy.”
Roddy opened his mouth, latched onto her nipple and began to suck. She thought of the flowing river, nurturing the land with needed moisture. She thought of rain gently falling on the bean crop in the garden. She thought of Sylvia pouring a can of water onto the base of the azaleas. She felt an unfamiliar sensation, and looked down to discover that her son was gustily drawing liquid into his mouth, a drop dribbling from the side of his lips. A patch of darkness marked her bodice above the unused breast. Her milk had let down, and she was nursing her child as easily as ever her mother had.
Almost sobbing with relief, she took a moment to say a grateful prayer, and to bless her mother-in-law for her kindness and wisdom. When another bomb burst overhead, she scarcely noticed.
~~~
Rulon — March 6, 1862
The Yankee cavalrymen came out of their winter camps.
Nearly every day they accosted the Confederate pickets in fierce skirmishes. One evening, Rulon limped into the tent, dropped his saddlebags and weapons on his bed, and spread his hands before the warmth of the stove.
Owen Leoyd came in behind him and said, “Holy Hepzibah! You’re dripping blood all over the floor.”
Rulon examined his arms and didn’t see any wounds. “Where, man?”
“The back of your right leg. You don’t feel it?”
Rulon snorted. “I’m so cold I can’t feel my own nose.” He looked over his shoulder and winced at the sight of the blood on the limb Leoyd had indicated.
“That needs to be tended. Do you want to see the doc?”
“I’d rather not. He’ll likely take the leg off.” Rulon unfastened his uniform trousers and kicked them off, then rummaged in his saddlebag. “My Ma sent me a bandage for Christmas. I hoped I wouldn’t need it anytime soon.” He held out a knitted roll to Leoyd. “I’d be obliged if you’d do the honors.”
Leoyd acquiesced and splashed a small amount of spirits on the wound, at which Rulon gritted his teeth to avoid crying out. Leoyd held the edges of the gash together until he’d wrapped the knitted bandage around Rulon’s calf.
“The cut’s not deep, but it surely dripped a fair amount. Too bad it spoiled your fancy trousers.”
“Don’t you speak ill of my mother’s fancy work,” Rulon said, grinning to defuse his words. “She cared enough to make it pretty for me. I count her a true Virginia patriot, even if she did come from up North.”
“Your ma’s a Yankee?”
“No, no. She hasn’t been that for a long spell. One summer when she was a slip of a girl, she went down to Shenandoah County to visit a cousin, and never returned home.”
“Uh huh. What kept her in the county?”
“Her stay was prolonged on account of my Pa’s persuasive words on behalf of his bright future and overwhelming manliness. When he asked if she would be his bride, she told him ‘yes’ and never looked back.”
“A Yankee, huh?”
“Not anymore.” He looked ruefully at his trousers, then donned them again. “I’ll ask that you don’t share the facts of my heritage with Von. He already thinks I’m not worthy of fightin’ for Virginia.”
“He’s mighty peculiar, for sure” Leoyd said. “I don’t think he’s right in the head.”
�
��I will give him credit that he fights the Yankees like a devil from hell,” Rulon said. “However, I never want to be in front of that blade of his when he’s not set on toying with me.”
Leoyd raised his eyebrows. “You think he’s playing with you? He’s got some kind of grudge against you, Owen. I don’t know what caused it.”
Rulon shook his head. “He took a dislike to me from the moment he first saw me. I reckon it’s mighty awkward to have to sleep with one eye open and not even know why.”
“Huh,” said Leoyd. “Let’s go grab whatever’s left of supper.”
On the way to eat, someone thrust a couple of letters into Rulon’s hands. While he ate, he opened Mary’s to read.
In only seconds, he was on his feet, whooping and hollering, his wound forgotten and the contents of his plate scattered on the ground.
One of the men looked up and asked, “What ails you, Owen?”
Rulon tried to calm himself enough to answer, but the powerful emotion Mary’s words had evoked prevented him from giving a coherent reply for some minutes.
“I’m a papa,” he finally gasped. “I have a son.” The strength left his legs as the enormity of that responsibility swept through him. He sat with a whoosh as the air left his lungs.
The troopers of Company “I” gathered around, pounding him on the back and offering congratulations. All except for one, who eyed him with a resentful air.
~~~
Ella Ruth — March 11, 1862
Poppa stormed into the parlor, bearing aloft an envelope.
“What is the meaning of this?” he said, his voice raised and angry.
Ella Ruth patted a wrinkle out of her skirt before she replied, striving to put on a coquettish smile. “Why, Poppa. I have no idea. Pray tell, what do you have there?”
He approached on stiff legs, his face crimson, and waved the paper in the air. “This, young lady, is a letter. It is addressed to you. It comes from that young man you professed to love, then cast aside. Why does he presume to write?”