by Lana Mowdy
Chapter 3
Wade woke with a gnawing in his belly that just wouldn’t subside, but over the next few months he learned to live with the constant pains of hunger. Very often, he grew dizzy from the lack of nutrition and constant fear. His soft brown eyes sunk, resulting from lack of sleep, and his face grew pale because he would not dare walk outside of the house for fear of Yankees. He often woke in the middle of the night with nightmares, and though he screamed, nobody came to comfort him. Every person in the house was either sick or exhausted from a full day’s work. The loneliness claimed his mind and his heart.
“Mother needs me to be brave,” he thought as he watched everyone scurry around the house. He ran to her, wanting to help, knowing that he could do something.
“Go outside and play, Wade Hampton.” Scarlett’s eyes blazed as she spoke so sharply that his knees began to quiver. Hanging his head, he walked blindly out of her sight, trying again to be brave. He did not want to make her angry, but every time he tried to help, her reproaches became more and more forceful, so that he tried desperately to stay out of her way. His fear of his mother almost equaled his fear of the Yankees, and he hated the Yankees even more for making his mother so angry.
He had never seen his mother so irate before. She had never been angry, never raised her voice, and had never raised her hand to him before that night when the Yankees came. In his heart, he feared that the Yankees would cut him into a million pieces, but worse than that, whatever the Yankees had done to his mother had made her so mad that he feared she didn’t love him anymore. This thought broke his heart into a million pieces, and try as he might, he could not make her love him again. Late at night, when the house was still, and everyone thought he was asleep, he tried to figure out ways to be a better little boy so she would love him and feed him again. It was useless.
Only in Aunt Melly’s room did he feel loved. He often went there just to talk and listen as she would tell him stories.
Aunt Melly held him in her arms, cradling his dwindling body with her own weak arms. “My dearest nephew,” she would begin each story with her soft, soothing voice. “You look so much like your father. He had soft, brown eyes, just like you. His face was like that of an angel. Charles had the mildest disposition, and yet he became like a schoolboy around your mother. He loved her, and I am sure that she loved him, too.”
Wade looked deeply in her eyes, searching for sincerity, and he always found it, for she truly believed that Scarlett would only have married so quickly and been blessed with this child if she had been in love.
“You father made the greatest sacrifice just for you. He never wanted to leave you or your mother, but he made the sacrifice for the Cause. He was a brave soldier, and he died before he ever saw you, so that he could save you from pain and misery. He wanted you to have the life that he envisioned for himself, and he could only have it by fighting for it.”
These stories brought visions of his brave father fighting bitterly for him. He saw the battle and his father riding a stallion to the front of the lines, yelling the Rebel battle cry. He never knew, of course, that his Aunt Melly embellished just a bit because she wanted Wade to be proud of his father. Although Charles never saw battle, and had actually died of pneumonia while in training, she knew his character. She knew Charles had been brave. He was a fighter, and he rushed to enlist in the army to fight for the Cause that he held so dear. Melanie Hamilton loved her brother, and wanted his son to know him the way she had loved him.
“My dearest nephew, on the day you were born, Jonesboro County came to greet you. I heard about you all the way from Atlanta because the celebrations were held across the whole state of Georgia. Your mother was ecstatic as she held her beautiful brown-eyed baby boy in her arms. Then she traveled all over the state just to show you off to everyone she knew. You know, you were named after your father’s commanding officer because he was so brave, just as you are.”
As Wade listened to the story of his arrival, his eyes were wide with awe. He never knew that he was named after someone as brave as a Confederate commander. The thought of living up to his name was slightly unnerving. But the reassurance of his mother’s love was doubtful, and only made him question her soon dismissal even worse. To be named after someone so brave, how could he be so frightened of her? And if she was so happy when he was born, why didn’t she love him anymore? What did he do that was so bad?
Melanie never knew these thoughts, though. She expected that since he was still a small child, he should still act and think like a child. She never knew of his fear of the Yankees or his mother. She never knew that her stories would evoke such powerful thoughts from a young child. She only knew that she wanted to comfort him and shield him from his mother’s sharp tongue. She never knew that on the night they left Atlanta he had aged beyond his years, and he would never again retrieve his innocence. He had faced reality far too soon, and the only comforting words would be to hear from his mother say that the Yankees were all gone.
The days at Tara were the longest that he could remember. Everyone seemed to be working all the time and no one had time for him. His Aunt Careen and Aunt Suellen were still in bed and sick. He had heard his mother yell at them from time to time, so he had to stay away from their room, and he didn’t want to wake Aunt Melly when she was sleeping. So he would roam around the house, making plans in case the Yankees came.
There was scarcely any furniture in the house, and what was left had been scratched, broken, and damaged when the Yankees came through the house. The rugs on the floor were faded and bare. The trinkets had all been stolen, and the house seemed to whine with emptiness. The few chairs that had not been burned for firewood had been stabbed with sabers, and Wade would spend hours trying to very deliberately and carefully use his fingers to gently stuff the cushions back into the holes made by looting soldiers.
The most interesting treasure in the entire house was a very large painting. He would sit in a wooden chair, staring at the picture, and imagining the great woman who was represented. He knew that it was not his mother, but it resembled her. The woman’s eyes were fierce and scary, but they drew him in to imaginary stories surrounding her. He envisioned her to be a woman that would love and protect him. He wished he could crawl up in her lap, and she would fight off the Yankees and his mother. No one could hurt him while he was near her.
After another sharp word from his mother, he grasped his aching tummy and headed for the room with the picture. Maybe he would talk to her, and she would come for him.
“Who are you, young man?” Grandpa Gerald’s voice came booming from the wooden chair. Wade startled, not expecting to see another person in the room. Wade felt slightly uncomfortable in the man’s presence because he usually did not speak to him, and he didn’t always make sense.
“Wade Hampton Hamilton,” Wade replied softly.
“Come, sit here with me, lad,” Gerald’s eyes did not denote recognition.
Wade went to him, and climbed on his knee, and looked to the painting that was hanging before both of them.
“That, my boy, is your great, grandmother Robillard. She was your grandma’s mother. Quite a great lady, she was. Certainly not as great as your grandmother, but she was interesting.”
Wade turned to look at Grandpa Gerald. He was excited that he was being addressed and recognized, and he had always wanted to know more about the lady in the picture. Now to know that she was actually related to him made him even more interested.
“She hated me, you know. She never thought I was good enough for Mrs. O’Hara, but I think I showed her pretty well. I built this house, and cleared this land. A fine plantation, it is. If Mrs. O’Hara wouldn’t mind, I might invite them stay, so they can see how well I have done.”
Wade stared at him, wondering what was happening again. Mrs. O’Hara, his grandmother had died before they had come back from Atlanta. He had heard his mother say so. Sometimes he just did not understand grown-ups, but he stayed very still, hoping to h
ear more about his Great Grandmother Robillard.
Wade pointed to the picture unable to voice his desire to know more about her.
Grandpa Gerald seemed to understand his request and continued, “Well, boy, the old lady was just about as racy as great ladies can be. I have heard many tales, but I don’t think I should repeat them to young Scarlett’s boy. Run along, now, I must speak to Mrs. O’Hara.”
Wade climbed down, and hung his head as he walked slowly out of the room. He was truly enjoying the attention. He needed someone to talk to, and he needed to know about that lady. He knew that if he could find her, she would love him. She would protect him, and he would feel safe. “Even the Yankees would be afraid of those eyes,” he said to himself as he decided to find another place to hide, trying to subdue his hiccups.
He tried to fit in various cubbyholes throughout the house, trying to find a place where he could hide in case Yankees came back. In his mind, he would imagine the entire scenario and plan an escape to his secret hiding place, where he knew they would never find him. Sometimes he would sit for hours in one spot, checking to see if anyone would find him, and when no one seemed to notice his absence, he would be satisfied with the spot.
However, when the time came to employ his plans, they failed him. As he heard the horse’s hooves on the lawn, his arms, legs, mind, and tongue failed him. Frozen speechless, he could only stare blankly at his mother as she raced around the house trying to hide the few treasures she had been able to find. When she saw him crouched by the banister, she called to him, and he ran to her and tried to cling to his mother, but she flung him away. She cajoled him with calmness, persuading him to follow Mammy and Melly to the swamp, but he didn’t hear a word she said. The room was growing dark, and his legs were weakening. He didn’t feel right, but he pretended there was a steel rod in his spine, and his mother’s strength seemed to strengthen him. He would not leave her to the Yankees. He would stand right here beside her. He would stand.
When the Yankees entered the house and swarmed around them, finding anything they could steal, he held tightly to his mother. He did not notice his own shaking, but he willed strength into her, as he clutched her trembling legs through her skirts. He felt her legs go weak, but he tightened his grip, and stifled his hiccups.
“No!” Scarlett screamed. “You can’t take that!” Wade looked up to see his mother pleading with the Sergeant to return Wade’s sword.
Anger raged through Wade’s body as he witnessed Yankee hands holding the sword that had been his father’s and grandfather’s. “Mine!” he screamed. He would fight them to the bitter end to keep that sword. It was the only link he had with his father. It was the only thing that his mother had given to him, the only symbol of kindness shown in the months they had been at Tara. That sword represented the only good things he could remember in his short life, and he would never let that Yankee soldier take his happy memories. He held tighter to his mother, as the soldier handed the sword back to his mother. Anger still raged throughout his body, and he began to tremble. Pride swelled his heart as he felt he had fought and won that sword himself.
After the Yankees had gathered all they could find, they filed slowly out of the house, and Wade could feel Scarlett release a long breath. Suddenly she turned and flung his hands off of her. Smoke began to fill his nostrils as he realized that the kitchen had somehow caught on fire.
Exhaustion crept over him, as he gripped his sword and slid down in the corner of the hall. Though he had never said prayers with his mother, he had heard Aunt Melly, and he knew it was time to pray. He watched his mother scream, flying through the house looking for water. He could feel the warmth of the flames as they leapt out of the kitchen. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember the words that Aunt Melly had said. “Lord in Heaven, keep us safe… Forgive us of our trespasses… forgive those who trespass against us… Stop the burning… Give us our daily bread…Keep Mama safe…” He knew the words weren’t right, but he knew of the power being released, and as Scarlett ran back and forth trying to put out the fire, Wade felt peace flow through his body. He had saved his sword, Mother was putting out the fire, the Yankees were gone, and he did not have a sword run through his belly. He had met the Yankees head on, and he protected his mother and his home, just as he knew his father would have done if he had been here. He let himself fall into a deep, deep sleep.
With a new sense of pride, Wade began to face each day with more strength than he had felt before. He had conquered Yankees, and his prayers were answered. Of course he told no one about his prayers, but they became more frequent. They were not the constant silent prayers on bended knee like those of Aunt Carreen, but they were heart-felt pleas for help from the silent lips of a frightened boy.
Wade’s face remained sunken from lack of nutrition, but the color began to come back as he ventured out of the house little by little. In the mornings, he bravely took a basket and went outside to gather sticks and twigs to start the fire. Sometimes he would follow his mother silently with his own little basket to gather any vegetables he could find in the garden, and when the cotton grew, he plucked cotton until his little fingers began to bleed, never complaining, becoming a little man when other four year old boys played in the house, oblivious to the destruction surrounding them.
Strangers began to straggle through the countryside, stopping at Tara, hoping to find company and food. Wade stood by Mammy’s side, helping her. He ran to get water by the buckets to wash the soldiers and their clothes. He gathered any blankets he could find, and made pallets in the floor for the soldiers to rest. He would sit by their side, listening as they told stories of the war and the families they were traveling to see, hoping to hear stories of his father. And though no one had a story to tell him about his father, visiting with these soldiers made him feel closer to his father because they had experienced the same thing his father had, and in each face, he saw his father’s face, fighting the Yankees, dying honorably in battle, and he hung on every word they uttered, claiming the information as if it was his own.
The soldiers enjoyed the presence of the young boy with soft brown eyes. He sat quietly, listening intently to every word they spoke, and so they embellished a little, keeping it light-hearted, as if they needed to shelter this young boy from the atrocities of war. They would tell funny stories, reveling in the giggles that would emerge, tiny at first, then busting out into full guffaws, as he became more and more amused at Yankees who fell off their horses, mud flying in all directions splattering faces, and tumbles down the hillside. The soldiers felt like heroes as they gained the admiration of a young boy with a tan, bony face, dark hair, and emerging muscles.
Wade especially loved Will, a soldier that came through one afternoon, ill with pneumonia. Wade would sit by his side for hours, waiting for him to wake, until his mother would catch him in the room and run him out. When he finally began to recuperate, Wade would sit and watch him as he mended baskets, played with Beau, and whittled toys out of small pieces of wood he had gathered that morning. Will worked deftly with a knife, and did not say too much, but he listened intently as Wade slowly began to gather the words he needed. Wade told him stories of escaping from Atlanta, being hungry, and his mother. Will simply nodded and looked at him with interest when he talked of his mother, and though he never said as much, Will felt a kinship, pity, and admiration for this young man who had grown up too quickly. The child spoke with broken language, but with thoughts and ideas like other men he had fought alongside during the war. This little man, with heroic dreams, unreturned love, and lack of companionship remained by his side, even when Will found the strength to stand for a few hours and work around Tara.
Often Wade would worry desperately that Will would leave, and he would be left again with no one to listen to him. He would pray from time to time that Will would stay forever so that he would have company. Will soon became a hero, with his pinkish hair and pale blue eyes that did not waver as Wade bared his soul, and his deep
est secrets. Wade found that he could share his prayers with Will, and he didn’t laugh. He could talk with him about his mother, asking for advice, and receiving thoughtful answers. Most importantly, Will never told him to go play. He never said he was busy, and he calmly answered every question with great patience.
“Will, did you get scared when you were in the war?” Wade asked gingerly, remembering his fear when they fled Atlanta, and when the Yankees were in the house.
“Sometimes,” Will answered without looking up from the horse he was deftly carving from a small piece of oak that Wade had brought him that morning.
“Will, can you be brave even if you get a little scared, sometimes?”
“I think so. Being brave doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. It means you do the right thing even when you are scared.”
“Will, if I act braver, will Mother love me more?” Wade searched Will’s eyes imploringly, trying not to let on the extreme importance that hung on the words that he would speak.
Will set down his knife, looking Wade straight in the eyes and very calmly answered his question though his heart wrenched. “Your mother loves you very much. She works very hard to make sure you have food in your stomach and a roof over your head. To answer your question, she will love you the same no matter how brave you act. A mother’s love is like that.”
Wade’s eyes fell to the floor as he felt his heart drop deep into the pit of his stomach. That was not the answer that he was seeking. To know that his mother loved him as much as she could did not make him feel better. It left no room for improvement, and Will had basically told him that nothing was going to make his mother love him any more. Suddenly he could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he stood and flew from the room before Will saw him cry. He didn’t want anyone to see him cry ever again. He ran out the back door, into the blinding sunlight, down into the swamp where he sat under the tall trees, crying, sobbing, and hiccupping until there were no tears left. Even after the tears had long subsided, he heaved great sighs, ridding himself of the grief he felt down deep in his heart.
When he finally calmed down, he stood, dusted off his pants, and walked slowly back to the house. His heart was still heavy, but he felt like he could face his mother, now that he knew the truth. He squared his shoulders like he had seen his mother do so many times, and raised his head, once again racing forward into manhood. Reaching the house, he found everyone in frenzy. The ladies were racing around, his mother was crying, and Aunt Melly was holding on to someone he had never seen before, crying and laughing at the same time. He walked around asking questions, but no one had the time to stop and answer. Food was being gathered for as much a feast as possible, little cousin Beau was being cleaned and changed, and Aunt Melly would not leave this stranger’s side. Finally, Will answered, “Wade, this is your Uncle Ashley, Aunt Melly’s husband, and Beau’s father.” Will looked down on the little boy with sympathy, for he knew the pang that gripped Wade’s heart as he realized again that his father would never return.
As happy as he was for Aunt Melly and Beau, his heart was broken as he realized that he had lost another companion. Aunt Melly would spend all of her time with Uncle Ashley, and even though Beau was not much of a playmate, yet, he had been anxiously waiting for him to get big enough to explore the swamps with him. Everyone was making such a fuss over Uncle Ashley that they did not see Wade as he walked silently up the stairs to steal away in Aunt Melly’s room and crawl into the corner. After a few hours, still no one had come to look for him, so he slid to his room, and lay down in his bed.
That night, the dreams of Yankees returned, but no one was there to protect him. He ran and ran, but they found him at every turn. Suddenly, he felt arms around his chest. He tried to fight them off, but they held tight. He breathed in the fresh fragrance of a woman, and turned to find the soft warm arms of his Great Grandmother Robillard holding him tightly, with blazing eyes that held off the Yankee forces. When he woke, he found no one in the room. His face was wet where he had apparently been crying, and he slipped into sleep again thinking of his Great Grandmother, reveling in the warmth he felt with her arms around him.
He had no idea that in the corner, Will sat watching him, and it had been Will’s arms that had comforted him and quieted him during the night. After Wade had fallen asleep again, and was sleeping calmly, Will slipped out of the room, down to his own room, where he spent the rest of the night staring blankly out the window. Earlier in the night, he had heard Wade screaming loudly, and when after a few moments no one else went to the child, Will ran into the room to find the boy wet with sweat and tears. He knew of the dreams Wade endured, but he thought they had gone away. The return of Ashley and the earlier conversation about his mother had brought back the nightmares, and Will could feel nothing but sympathy for this poor, hurt, lost child. He had planned to stay at Tara to help Scarlett and repay the family for nursing him back to health and saving his life, but at this moment he knew that he had to be here for Wade. He did not know that Wade would count on him for the rest of his life, respecting him as he would his own father.