by Ward, Marsha
When we started off, from the direction we took, we thought we were marching to the Valley, and I had hopes of catching a glimpse of yor sweet face, but soon it became apparent we were going to observe the enemy close to hand, and do our utmost to gain intelligence and cause what trouble we could behind their lines.
Our spirits were high, despite the grave danger of our situation at times. Col. Fitz Lee took us on a little jaunt down a side road in hopes of cutting off a squad of Yankees, which exployt ended up with us crossing a swamp with some difficulty. Most of the enemy fled, and we took only one prisoner.
Another day, Col. Rooney Lee’s 9th Reg’t got into a close fight with sabrs and pistols, but prevailed. The Yankees took off and our colonel begged to be permitted to make a pursuit, and gaining consent, we were off on the road to Old Church.
I have been doing a bit of tracking under the instruction of old Mister Vernon Earl. I do not recall if I told you of him before. He is a hunter from the Blue Ridge who has good skills that he is imparting to me. He has taut me how to find the spots where animals go besides where the human animals pass. We’ve been looking for the latter, of course. Mayhap I will have a use for the animal tracking after this war is done.
On one occasion, our Col. put me to work practicing the knowledge I have gained from Mr. Earl. I am happy to report that I did not lead us into a swamp, but with only one mistake on my part, we ended up on the trail of a patrol of Yankees, of which we captured a great lot.
There is so much more to recount, but my paper is almost used up, and I have other words to say to you. Mary, how I miss you. How I miss the little son you have borne me, even though I have not seen him with my own eyes. I wish you could get a likeness made of the boy to send to me. I would keep it upon my heart at all times. I treasure the one you sent to me of yor dear person. I kiss it every night. Oh my love. I dream of the sweet day when I can return home to you, greet you with an embrace, and lay with you once again cradled in my arms. Do you not dream of the same? Do not be shy in riting affectionate words to me, my darling. I hold sacred yor trust. Feer not. My body and soul are yors alone.
I figure we are going into battle again within a short time. I am informed that when the spring and summer come, with them arrives a new season of battles. General Lee will not hesitate to move on the enemy. I will do everything in my power to remain whole and safe.
With all the tender feelings of my soul,
Yor husband, Rulon
~~~
Mary — June 24, 1862
One morning, Rand Hilbrands came into the store with his arms full of letters and packages. “Ida, come take this parcel,” he said, glancing in her direction.
Mary, who was closer to him, put out her arms to receive it, but he gave it into Ida’s charge instead.
“Here is a letter for you, Mistress Mary. From your husband, I suspect.”
Mary took it, relief sweeping through her breast at having evidence of his good health in her hand. “Thank you, Papa. We have no customers in the store. May I go to read it?”
“Can I prevent you from doing so?” he replied in a jovial manner. “I hope it is good tidings.”
“Thank you, Papa,” she said, and hurried into the back room where Roddy slept in his cradle, his breathing even, except when he made an occasional little snuffling sound.
Mary sat, unsealed the envelope flap, and took out one sheet of paper, written on both sides to the very margins. Rulon had been on a grand adventure, he said, and recounted some of the events. He seemed to have a liking for the art of tracking. Mary shrugged. That was a man’s concern.
She caught her breath. He missed her. He spoke longingly of Roddy. She had not thought of sending a likeness of the boy, but must now certainly see about having one made of him, because Rulon wanted to have it.
Oh my, she thought, her heart leaping. She had just read his words of how he treated her likeness, and what effect it had upon him. Hungrily, she scanned the next sentence. “Oh my love,” it read. She scarce could breathe for the tightness in her chest. How long had it been since she had heard his voice whisper those words to her? The next bit caught her by surprise, and she froze.
Rulon longed for her to be in his embrace, to lie beside him, in his arms. And then she read, “Feer not. My body and soul are yors alone.”
She began to weep. Rulon had remained true to her. His letter clearly expressed his devotion. She had fretted and worried herself sick of mind for no reason. Her self-afflicted pain had been a misuse of her energies, and she regretted the waste of contentment while she had been engaged in doubting her husband’s fidelity.
Conscious of her precarious location, and fearing to awaken her babe, she wiped her eyes and breathed slowly until her tears were under control. She reckoned she must make every effort to put doubt out of her mind. She must aid Rulon in being true. He desired her to use words of affection in her letters. Her mind shrank at the idea of putting her private thoughts on paper. She hadn’t been a wife long enough to be comfortable in saying such things as he had included in this letter. He was a bolder creature than she. Even though he had taught her to relish certain intimacies, she certainly would not speak of them. Must she devise a code? Perhaps she would give thought to that notion. For now, it sufficed that Rulon bore bountiful affection for her and honored his vows.
Chapter 21
Rulon — August 30, 1862
Rulon had a great surprise upon the field of battle at Manassas late on the third day. He had been detailed as a courier for General Stuart and was carrying orders to General Robertson when he encountered his father.
“Pa!” he shouted, reining up. “Pa!” he tried again to get his attention.
His father turned his head, and seeing Rulon, spurred his horse in his direction.
“Son. Be safe. This fight is vicious.”
“I will. Have you seen Ben or Peter?”
“Peter is in the thick fighting near the plantation house. I haven’t caught sight of Ben. God speed, son,” he said, and was off, leading his company in a different direction.
“Lordy, lordy,” Rulon whispered in a demi prayer, relieved to see Pa was whole, but now concerned about Peter. The rascal would manage to go into the hottest part of the fray. Nothing would prevent him seeking glory.
Then Rulon could put no thought to his brother’s pride, as he was on the move again, looking for the brigade colors that marked the spot from which the General directed his regiments. He had orders to deliver.
~~~
Julia — September 2, 1862
After a year of war, Julia had grown used to the exercise of scanning the casualty lists published by the newspaper after the big battles. She would never become accustomed to the clutching sense of dread that accompanied the perusal.
Carl came home from town in late afternoon and handed the list to her, folded with such sharp edges that he must have run pinching fingers over the fold several times to leave a tight crease.
“Did you read it yet?” she asked.
He shook his head, eyes cautious. Albert stood half behind him, clutching white-knuckled hands together.
She held the sheet for a moment, then turned away from her sons, the dread closing her throat already.
She took a seat at the table. Marie came into the room, followed by Julianna. Julia said, “Sit down, daughters.” Her quavering voice startled her.
Marie sat on one side and Julianna on the other. Julia heard Carl and Albert go outside, but they hadn’t closed the door, and she could feel their eyes boring into her shoulder blades. She didn’t know where James and Clayton were.
Marie twisted a handkerchief. Julianna folded her arms on the table top and put her head down on them. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Julia unfolded the paper and looked at it. The list was neither alphabetized nor ordered by unit, which meant she had to read each name. She did not want to see any name ending in Owen. She ran her tongue across her bottom lip. She struggled to take a breath.
She exhaled and began, drawing her forefinger slowly down the first column as she read the names. She noticed that her finger trembled, and she paused to get herself in hand.
Marie made a small sound.
Julia looked at her, then back to the paper. Her heart pounded in her ears. She slowly began to read again, her lips forming each name.
Near the bottom of the third column, her finger stopped. She shrank back, a cry arising from the depths of her soul.
“Mama?” moaned Julianna.
Peter. The entry said Peter Owen. It gave his regiment and company.
Julia whispered his name once, disbelieving the printer’s ink under her finger. Her hands convulsed, opening and closing above the sheet before her. Her ears buzzed. I dasn’t faint. I dasn’t!
Shadows moved in front of her as the girls peered at the spot her finger had marked. Julianna whimpered and sat back. Julia forced herself to focus her eyes on her daughter. The girl’s face had gone white as alabaster. She appeared about to topple to one side.
Julia found the strength to thrust out her arm and grasp her daughter’s wrist. She heard a chair’s legs scrape against the floor. Marie was on her feet, pacing, tears streaming down her cheeks as she sobbed.
“Ma?” Carl put his hands on her shoulders.
All she could do was point. She had no voice to speak his name again. Gone. The boy was gone.
Carl must have located the awful bit of news. She heard his sharp inhalation, and Albert’s “Who is it, Carl?” as he came around her side. Carl’s hands had slipped off her shoulders. The boys whispered to each other, then Albert choked off a sob.
Julianna had gone limp, leaning backwards, almost off the bench. Julia knew she couldn’t hold her upright from her chair. She somehow got her feet underneath her, levered herself upright, and pulled the girl back to lean on the table, all the while chills ran races along her spine. Peter was dead. She had no time to mourn while her other children were in such sore straits.
~~~
Julia — September 12, 1862
For days, Julia navigated the paths of her everyday life with her heart torn to shreds. Peter was gone. Peter, whose reckless spirit had led him to seek the adventures of war, was no more. She couldn’t fathom it. Yes, she had been forced to lay a babe in a grave before this, but to have a half-grown child wrested from her? It was unthinkable.
She wondered if Rod knew of the loss. The two of them had been in the same regiment, so it was possible that he had found out. She longed to have his arm around her shoulders, to gain solace from his sturdy body held next to hers, but that was impossible just now. She would have to travel this path of sorrow alone.
No. She wasn’t alone. She had children beside her, children who were grieving the taking of their playmate, older brother, and friend. Tease. Rapscallion. Jokester. He was all of those. But he was also a hard worker.
Had been. Not now. Julia felt her soul was stripped to pieces.
Peter would never again come up behind her and tie the tails of her apron strings where she couldn’t reach them. He would never again curry the buggy horse and put it into harness for her. He would never again object to her swift kiss on his cheek at night.
Peter was gone, dumped into a hole on a battlefield and covered over with a few spades of Virginia earth.
She sank into a chair, ready to weep, knowing she should comfort Julianna, who went about the house like a ghost. Marie sobbed in her room at night. Carl wore the face of a martyr, white as alabaster. Clay and Albert huddled on the fireplace hearth in the evenings, shoulders drooping, each one looking at the other then away, too proud to cry.
She had no strength. Peter. The dark-haired child who’d come along after two little tow-headed boys. How was she to do without him?
She rested for a few moments, imagining him dashing into the thick of the battle, then shied away from following that thought. She must not mope here. It would lead her into dark avenues. She gathered her resources into a tiny ball of resolve, and rose to get a basket and go outdoors to take the clothes off the lines. She hoped the open air would sooth her battered soul.
~~~
Rulon — September 20, 1862
Rulon’s regiment had pressed forward into Maryland as General Lee sought to gain an advantage by invading the North. One evening, shortly after the bloody days at Sharpsburg, he got a letter. He leaned on his horse to rip it open, having recognized Mary’s hand.
September 4, 1862
Dear Husband,
I scarce can hold a pen to write these words for the great sorrow enwrapping my soul. Your sister Marie came to see our dear child and me. Soon after coming through the door, she commenced to weep as though she would perish from grief, bringing the most fearful news. Your brother Peter is no more. His name was writ on the casualty list from the second fight about Manassas railway junction. No one knows where his erthly remains are laid to rest. I am terriby distracted by the evil news of your brother’s demise.
Your mama is beside herself with mourning, Marie tells me. She herself is almost in the same state. I endeavered to tell her to be brave so she wood be fit to help your mama bear her burden. After a time, she cried her final tears and agreed to do what she could. We must now find or make black material for mourning clothes. However, I do not kno of a weaver left in the county.
Dear husband, I pray you are well and can take the terribl loss of your broth’r in stride. We hear many reports of your bravery and skill in fighting the dred foe in Maryland. I tell Baby Roddy about his Papa every night before I lay him in bed. Do not put yourself in Harm’s Way. My love for you is unending.
Yor faithful wife,
Mary Hilbrands Owen
Halfway through his reading of the letter, he felt himself sliding down the withers of the horse, and then he was sitting on the ground, distraught and trying to hold himself together. Peter dead? It did not seem possible.
“No,” he groaned. “No, not my brother. Dear God, why Peter? Why not me instead?”
Ren found him there, and led the horse away so it wouldn’t do him damage. He returned and squatted beside Rulon.
“Ill news?”
“Oh God in heaven,” Rulon cried out as though he petitioned the Lord for a different outcome. “It’s my brother. Gone. Dead.”
He felt Ren’s hand touching him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rule. That’s a terrible loss.” The voice was so quiet Rulon could barely hear it.
He crumpled Mary’s letter in his two fists, crying unashamed tears.
Ren stayed still and silent for a time, then arose. “You’d best take a mouthful or two of rations, man. You may not think it will help, but it will keep you from wasting in this hard time.”
Rulon shook his head. How could he think of eating when his rascally brother would never take sustenance again? “My poor ma. She don’t deserve this.”
Ren gave a little snort. “No mother does, but you know the truth. Our men are dying most every day. Some poor mothers who don’t get any notice are left to wonder why their dear boy don’t write home anymore.”
“That don’t help the pain, Ren.”
“It’s fresh, man. Don’t dwell on it for more than a little space. You’ve got your duty.”
Rulon remembered the picket he was supposed to relieve. “Give me a minute. I’ll pull myself together.”
“You will do. Ridin’ by your side these months past, I’ve learned you’ve got the mettle.”
“I—” Rulon scrubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands, almost tearing the letter in the process. “God have mercy on his soul,” he muttered, then got to his feet. He carefully folded the letter to finish later, and tucked it into his jacket. “Oh Mary,” he groaned. “Don’t let the boy come to any harm.”
~~~
Ella Ruth — September 21, 1862
Weeks after Ella Ruth heard of Mrs. Owen’s loss of her son, her parents invited Doctor Allen and his wife to Sunday dinner. The dinner conversation
between the two brothers centered on the conflict just past at Sharpsburg, and the influx of wounded men into the new soldier’s hospital just outside Mount Jackson. While the ham was served, Dr. Allen mentioned that he was looking for ladies from the town to volunteer several hours a week to come nurse the new patients. “My own dear wife helps as she has time, but the children do need her at home.”
Mrs. Doctor Allen nodded and murmured a bit about how the little ones kept her quite occupied.
“Brother Joseph,” Ella Ruth’s mother said in a tone firm enough to catch the doctor’s attention. “What kind of topic is this for the dinner table?”
“A war time topic, my dear,” the doctor said. “These soldiers need care. Our country owes great thanks to these young men. What better way than to tend to their needs?”
Did Peter Owen die because no one was there to tend to his needs? Ella Ruth gave a little shudder, imagining Ben lying on a field strewn with the injured and dying. Mama should let Uncle have his say.
“Perhaps you should speak to Theodore on the topic after we dine. He can offer you several helpful ideas, I am quite sure. That would be more proper, don’t you agree?” Mrs. Allen turned to her husband for support.
“Uncle,” Ella Ruth surprised herself by speaking up. “What are your requirements for nurses?”
“Miss Ella Ruth, they need only have a pair of willing and able hands, a compassionate heart, and spare time.” He wiped a dripping of sauce off his chin with his napkin. “We will give any needed training to the nurses as they work.”
Ella Ruth let the conversation go on as she thought about his answer. She certainly had spare time, and her hands were capable, if not willing. Did she have a compassionate heart? Perhaps not. She wanted to be compassionate, but either it was a trait she lacked, or she had not been taught about compassion.