In His Eyes: A Civil War Romance

by Stephenia H. McGee

  Mama weakly squeezed her hand. “Tell me.”

  Ella’s words quivered. “You told me that Jesus saves us. That his sacrifice on the cross makes it so that we shed the robes of our transgressions. He allows us to wear the robes of his righteousness, and by him we are saved for eternal life.”

  Mama sighed softly. “Good girl. You must never forget that. If you put your heart in his hands, repent of your sins, and let him be the Lord of your life, sweet Ella, then you will never be alone.” She drew a breath that rattled in her chest. “You’ll never be alone, and when the time comes, you will get to be with him for always. Then you will see me again.”

  Mama tried to give Ella a weak smile. Ella trembled. “I don’t want to be alone, Mama.”

  “Then you have to call on him, sweet girl.” Her chest heaved. “You have…to….” Her body strained forward and Mama gasped for air that would not come.

  “Mama!” Ella shook her, but her body sagged against the threadbare pillow.

  The child Ella clutched her limp hand. “No, Mama!”

  Ella stood by the door and watched herself, reliving the terror she’d felt in that moment. Tears streamed down her face as her younger self fell to her knees beside the bed.

  “Please! Mr. Jesus, if you hear me, I’m sorry I’m not a good girl. I’m sorry that I make mischief and I talk too much and I do things I shouldn’t. But, please, I don’t want to be alone. I believe what Mama said was true. I believe you made it so that she could be with you and that you can take all those sins away. Don’t forget me, Mr. Jesus. Please, I believe, too.”

  Light filled the room and Ella watched herself crumple to the floor. She remembered calling out, and she remembered feeling something warm wash over her. But she knew what would come next. Papa would burst into the room and yank her up from the floor and fling her out, cursing at her for not helping Mama, for not coming to get him….

  She took a step back, not wanting to see that part even less than she’d wanted to see this. But time froze, and the light grew brighter. Ella turned, and there he was. He smiled at her, then walked to the younger Ella still on the floor. He put a hand on her head….

  Ella gasped, and returned to the field. She blinked. “You…you were there.”

  “And I have been there for everything else.” He stared deep into her eyes. “For everything.”

  Her heart lurched, everything suddenly clear. He had been there too, that night of terror in the shadows…had been there when men separated from the gloom and came for her….had saved her from what might have been worse than all her other pain combined.

  “Nothing can snatch you from my hand.”

  Tears streamed down her face.

  “Not even you forgetting me can separate you from me.”

  Ella put a hand to her heart. She had forgotten him. She’d talked to him some in the beginning, but as she’d asked him to make Papa stop his drinking, and for the war to end, and for things to get better at the farm, and he had not answered her, her disappointment with him had grown. He did not fix the problems or make her pain go away. And so she had grown angry. She’d tried to push him away and forget him. The girl who had cried out was locked away, and a hard woman had replaced her. A woman whose prayers were more wishes than conversations.

  “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” His gentle words tugged at her, breaking through each stone she had carefully placed and tended.

  She looked at him, and saw only love in his eyes. How could he love her when she had turned away from him? When she had been so angry at him that she tried to lock him away and forget him or only fling half-hearted requests his way when she never actually expected a reply?

  “Now, I ask you again. Who are you?”

  He grew brighter, so bright that she could barely see his form. Ella looked down at her dress, the pure white gown. “I am yours,” she whispered. “That is who I am.”

  The light wrapped around her, sweet and beautiful. It pulsed with each throb of her heart, giving her strength and courage that was not her own.

  “That is who you are, Ella. You are mine. Mine because I made you, and mine because I bought you at a price.”

  Ella breathed deep, feeling the light of truth touch places deep in her heart and vanquish lingering shadows in her dark corners.

  “You are loved.”

  The light swarmed around her, the sounds of peace and warmth blending into a melody of acceptance. The notes vibrated in her chest and blended in harmony with the light filling her soul.

  “Washed through my sacrifice and held to the end of time for my glory.”

  Ella lifted her hands to the light. “Yes, Lord. I am yours. I am beautiful because you are beautiful, and I am accepted and loved because I belong to you. You are what is special in me.”

  “Never will I leave you.” His voice filled the air and every part of her senses. “When you walk through the valley of shadows, I am with you. When you pass through the storm, I will be there.”

  The light filled her, then seemed to stream through every pore.

  “Love me first. Seek me first. And all other things will be added to you.”

  Ella drifted on the words until she settled into something soft. She snuggled into the warmth of her bed. Next to her, she could hear Lee breathing.

  Pain gathered like a dark fog and pooled around her, tugging at her grasp on the light. “But what about him?” she whispered to the darkness of her room. “Did you not hear my pleas? Will you let him die?”

  He spoke again, his voice all around her. “If I take him, then what?”

  Ella clutched her heart. “Then I will be….”

  “Alone?”

  She shook her head, loosening her grip a little. “Not alone, for you are with me.”

  “If I choose not to heal him, what will you do?”

  Ella opened her arms wide. “Then I will hurt to the depths of my soul, but I will love you still.”

  The light burning behind her closed eyes faded, but along with it the deep fog of fear receded. Ella blinked and rolled to her side, watching the infant take ragged breaths in the dark of her room at Belmont. Tears burned in the back of her throat. “I will love you still,” she whispered. “But, please, Lord, don’t take him from me.”

  Westley tugged the hat down on his head and hesitated at the door. He’d stayed up all night contemplating a decision that would affect the remainder of his life. He glanced back at the stairs. No, he would debate it no longer. He set his jaw and tugged open the door.

  Late May had grown pleasantly warm, even at this early hour when the dew still clung to the grass and birds twittered their morning symphony. His cane thumped down the stairs and to the drive of Belmont where the mud had not fully dried from all the rains.

  He would have to beg a nag from the Martins, but perchance he could purchase a horse in town. Likely, however, all the decent mounts had been confiscated by one army or the other. Perhaps the Martins would be willing to rent one of their geldings to him. His leg should be well enough for riding. Though it still ached, it grew steadily less troublesome.

  After a rather pleasant quarter hour or so stroll, Riverbend came into view. The stately home offered Greek revival columns and a wide porch that Westley had played on when he was a boy—back when life had seemed so easy and he hadn’t any more cares that facing his mother’s wrath for ruining another good set of breeches.

  He lifted the head of his cane and rapped on the door, then stepped back to check his pocket watch. A quarter to nine. A more respectable hour than his last visit, to be sure. A moment or so later, the door swung open and the house servant offered a perfunctory smile.

  “Mornin’ Mr. Remington. You wantin’ to see the missus again?”

  “Yes, please, if she is available.”

  The woman widened the door and gestured for him to enter. “You can wait in the parlor whilst I goes and gets her.”

  Westley removed his hat and tucked it under the arm of his russet bro
adcloth jacket before moving into the room she indicated. In here, a set of furniture gathered closely around the hearth and a pianoforte rested in the corner. At least they hadn’t been divested of all their furnishings as he had first thought.

  “Mr. Remington, how pleasant to see you again.” The tinkling of a feminine voice interrupted his contemplations of the state of affairs at Riverbend.

  “Miss Martin.” Westley bowed. “The pleasure is mine.”

  She lifted her fingers. “When I heard you came to call, I hurried down in hopes of seeing your wife and son, but it seems they have not accompanied you.”

  Westley accepted her outstretched hand and touched his lips to her knuckles before indicating she should sit. “I am afraid the baby is still quite ill, and Ella has hardly left her room.”

  Miss Martin perched on a frayed cushion and shook her head, sending her tight brown curls swinging. “Oh, I am so sorry to hear of the troubles, Mr. Remington. That is such a hard thing for a parent to bear.”

  Westley nodded, not sure what else to say on the matter. Thankfully, Mrs. Martin chose that moment to make an entrance. Westley rose and bowed.

  “Good morning, Mr. Remington. May I assume you have come to ask for the use of my carriage again?”

  Westley straightened. “I would not wish to take advantage of your kindness again, ma’am.”

  Something about her seemed to relax even as she waved her hand airily. “Of course not, dear sir. It is hardly an inconvenience.”

  “I was hoping, perhaps, that I might purchase one of the horses instead?”

  Mrs. Martin clasped and unclasped her hands in front of her plain black gown. “Well, I’m afraid then we won’t be able to use the carriage without the pair.”

  The Negro woman poked her head in. “You wants any refreshments, Mrs. Martin?”

  Mrs. Martin turned, but before she could answer, Westley spoke up. “Thank you for the kindness, but I am afraid I am once again going to be boorish and take my leave quickly. I do hope you will forgive me.”

  Mrs. Martin waved the woman away. “Certainly, Mr. Remington. You are surely a busy man.” She regarded him a moment, then seemed to arrive at a decision. “I am sorry we will not be able to sell you the horse. They were rather difficult to hang on to during the war, what with us having to hide them in the woods and all, and I am afraid I simply cannot part with one now.”

  Miss Martin rose from her place and moved to stand by her mother. “Mama, do you think it would be all right if I were to call on Mrs. Remington? Her baby is still ill, and I’m sure she would delight in some female company.”

  “I’m afraid Ella has been much too distraught for company, Miss Martin,” Westley said.

  The young woman bit her lip, and suspicion flooded Mrs. Martin’s eyes. “How very strange that she has hardly been out of that house since she first arrived.”

  Westley flexed his fingers. “As I said, the child is gravely ill, and she will not be removed from his side.”

  Miss Martin took her mother’s arm and offered a charming smile. “Of course we understand, sir.”

  “I thank you.” He shifted his gaze to the dowager. “Perhaps I may rent the use of one of your horses instead?”

  Mrs. Martin lifted her nose. “Don’t be absurd. I do not run a livery. The neighborly thing to do would be to allow the use of one’s provisions if one’s neighbor is lacking.”

  The words stung. Westley glanced around the room, painfully aware of how much more Riverbend had suffered than Belmont. He forced a polite smile. “On the contrary, ma’am, it seems only fair that I make a trade of some kind…?”

  Mrs. Martin pressed her lips together, but Miss Martin gave her mother’s arm an obvious squeeze. She beamed up at Westley. “Well, Mama and I could use a few staples.”

  Westley bowed. “A list, Miss Martin, if you will, and I shall see that it is fulfilled when I return the horse. I will need to go to town today, and will return the animal to you on the morrow.”

  Mrs. Martin seemed about to object, but her daughter stepped forward. “Thank you, sir. This will be mutually beneficial for us both.” She looked over her shoulder at her scowling mother. “Don’t you agree, Mama?”

  The older woman stretched her lips into what could be called a smile. “Of course, dear.”

  After receiving a short list of flour, sugar, rice and other such necessary items from Miss Martin, Westley received the horse from a young stable boy and swung into the saddle grateful he could mount it.

  He tipped his hat to the women watching from the porch. “Good day, ladies. I shall return tomorrow.”

  Miss Martin lifted her hand, but the older remained stoic. Westley turned the nag and urged it into a reluctant canter, feeling their eyes on him until he made it to the river road and out of sight.

  Once free of their stares, he allowed the poor beast to slow to a walk. The ride gave Westley time to sort through his thoughts, but not through the strange emotions that warred within him. He could not deny that he felt an urge to protect the little dragon living in his home, and though he was somewhat unnerved by the lengths he was willing to go to see her safe, he wasn’t entirely surprised by it either.

  Westley reined in at the old bank and tied the horse to a hitching post. Inside, Lieutenant Colonel Larson agreed to see him.

  “Major Remington!” Colonel Larson said, waving Westley inside his small office that still smelled of wet ash.

  Westley stepped inside, snapping his feet together and standing at attention.

  “At ease, Major.”

  Westley relaxed and placed his hands behind his back.

  “I was going to send a man out to your residence this very day. How very convenient that you thought to save me the trouble.”

  Westley shifted his stance. “You have news for me, I take it, sir?”

  The man gestured to a chair by his desk. “Indeed. It seems that the majority of the overdue taxes are to be waived, given your dedicated service to your country.”

  Westley accepted the chair and kept his face passive though relief swirled through him. “That is welcomed news, sir.”

  “In fact….” He leaned closer, as though his words shouldn’t be overheard. “I have received word that implies loyalists who are intent on helping reestablish the cotton industry may even receive some aid for their efforts.”

  Westley lifted his brows.

  “Hearsay, mind you,” the colonel said, leaning back, “but pleasant tidings nonetheless, I’m certain.”

  Westley nodded, though he wasn’t so sure. He needed to return to duty. Who would prepare fields and produce the crops? Perhaps he could hire some men….

  “So, you see, Major,” the officer said, interrupting Westley’s contemplations, “it is quite favorable news.” He fished a file from his desk and offered it to Westley. “Only a quarter of the original amount is required. Aid for the war effort, you know.”

  Westley wanted to argue the legality of the taxes as a whole, but he did not wish to antagonize the man. Besides, the amount was within his means, and it would keep things simple. And keep him from seeming insubordinate. Westley placed the folded document inside his breast pocket and rose from his chair. “This is most welcome, sir. I thank you.”

  The officer rose with him, seeming pleased, and stepped toward the door.

  “Sir, I am afraid,” Westley said with a grimace, “that the funds I brought with me on furlough are dwindling. I will need to secure this balance from my bank in Washington.”

  Colonel Larson waved his hand, his manner a bit too friendly. “Understandable. Have it within a few weeks, and all should be well.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He turned toward the door and then stopped. “Pardon me, sir, but do you happen to have a telegraph nearby?”

  The colonel followed him from the office and out into the warm day. “We have one we use for official correspondence. Why do you ask?”

  Westley rubbed the back of his neck, then set his shoulders
. “I have an important message I must get off to General Sheridan.”

  The colonel’s lips turned up into a sly grin. “So long as it’s official army correspondence, then.” He turned on his heel. “Corporal!”

  A young man jogged out from around the side of the building. Westley held back a chuckle as the young man he had discovered in his house widened his eyes. He came to a halt, gave Westley a nervous glance, and threw up a salute. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take Major Remington to the telegraph.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned to Westley with an expressionless face. “Right this way, sir.”

  After bidding Colonel Larson a good day and following the fidgety corporal to the telegram, Westley sent one message to the general and another to his banker, rationalizing that securing funds to cover the taxes the army had presented him with would have to count as official business as well.

  On his way out of town he was able to procure some of the Martin women’s supplies from the quartermaster general. What he couldn’t get from the man, he determined he would have to search out later. The three bags of rice, four bags of dried peas, and a few pounds of salt pork would have to do for now.

  As he turned the bony horse toward Belmont, Westley tried not to let the fact that he only had a few coins remaining in his pocket bother him. Once the funds arrived from his bank, the matter of the plantation would be settled.

  The town buildings passed from view, and he was glad to see the bright trees again as opposed to the grays of Greenville. He looked up at the sky, noting how pristine blue it seemed today. He turned his focus back to the road, but after only a moment or two his mind once again wandered.

  By the time he arrived at Belmont, the day had grown to be one of vibrant sunshine and air washed clean by the rains. He drew a lungful of it and let it out slowly. It was peaceful here. And peace had not been something Westley had longed for in quite some time. He’d dashed off to war with hopes of great honor and glory. Instead, he was tired, war weary, and lame—likely for the rest of his life.

  Westley pushed the bitterness aside before it could take root and ruin the peace that nature had granted. He would not let his lameness define him. To do so would only make of him an even weaker man. And he had too many responsibilities to succumb to that.