Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  My first impulse was to strip down to my chemise, but I hesitated. I was sure the children wouldn’t have noticed, but I didn’t want to be discovered by someone else standing in the middle of the creek, in nothing but a sheer piece of wet cotton. Resignedly, I pulled off my ankle boots and peeled down my stockings. Glancing around to make sure no one was lurking, I hoisted my skirts above the knees and sighed loudly as I waded into the stream.

  The children splashed me in their exuberance, but I declined to chastise them. The spattering of water droplets on my face was too refreshing. I eyed the children enviously, their bare arms and legs glinting in the sunlight. Sweat still poured down my face, so I scooped a handful of the moving water and splashed it over my head.

  The whinnying of a horse jerked me upright. I dropped my skirts in the water as I hastily turned around. I eyed my soaking clothing with dismay and quickly picked my skirts up again as I waded back to the shore. Charlie bolted past me and landed with a loud splash, his presence greeted with happy squeals from the children.

  I faced Stuart as he gingerly dismounted from Endy. “Not to sound discourteous, but what are you doing here? Making sure I don’t bolt?” I wiped a stray water drop off the tip of my nose. “I hate to tell you this, but the only covert activity I’m guilty of is trying to cool off in this creek without showing too much skin.”

  Raising his eyebrows slightly, Stuart replied, “I was paying a visit to Zeke. I have not seen him since Julia’s mother arrived. But I heard all this caterwauling and I came to see what had got caught in a trap.” He loosely tethered Endy to a tree and walked over to where I stood dripping.

  “I thought the children could use a nice respite from the heat.” I picked up the edge of my hem and squeezed it tightly, the water droplets scattering dust as they fell.

  “The children, hmm?”

  “Oh, all right. I was about to melt. And I’d just about give my left arm to be able to take off these clothes and go for a swim.”

  He looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to be shocked or amused. “I see.” He sat upon a large rock at the edge of the stream and began to remove his boots. “As much as I might enjoy the spectacle, I would not recommend it. You would scandalize the town.”

  He was struggling with the boot on his injured leg so I went over to help him. He held up his hand to stop me. “Laura, that is really not proper. . . .”

  “Stuart, you need help. Believe me, bare feet have never gotten anybody into trouble.”

  His eyes widened, but he wordlessly handed me his foot and I pulled off the boot. He winced slightly but nodded his thanks as he pulled off his socks.

  I waved my hand in front of my face. “Well, the sight isn’t scandalizing me, but the smell sure is. Is that a secret weapon to kill more Yankees than a single bullet?”

  Leaning back, he shook his head and laughed. “You know, Laura, I can always depend on you to say what is on your mind. A rare but admirable trait.”

  “Thank you. I think.” I carefully picked my way back into the water and found a seat on a partially submerged tree trunk.

  Sobering slightly, he said, “Why such a mystery, Laura? What is so dangerous that you have to keep it hidden?”

  I didn’t dare look at him. Staring down at the bright reflection of the water, I shrugged. “I hit my head, remember? I don’t recall much more about my past life than you don’t already know.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. “You must think me quite stupid.”

  “No, I don’t. And if I’ve kept anything from you, it’s merely self-preservation. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  A welcome interruption came in the form of Charlie bounding through the water toward me, inviting me to play. Grasping hold of the bottom of my skirt, he began tugging.

  “Charlie, stop it! I can’t go in. Willie! Sarah! Please come get Charlie and make him stop.” I wrinkled my nose at the smell of wet dog as I vainly tried to remove my dress from Charlie’s clutches.

  I stood, prepared to retreat to the safety of the water line, when I found footing on a deceptively slippery rock. One moment I was standing; the next I was sitting on my backside, partially immersed in the water.

  Once I had recovered from the shock, I politely refused all offers of help in righting myself. Instead, I lay back in my impromptu bath, allowing the water to wash over my face.

  I sat up and shouted, “Oh, that feels wonderful! I wish I had thought of that to begin with.” And then I promptly lay back again, feeling my hair move with the soft current.

  Opening my eyes under the water, I was surprised to see two dark, wavy figures on the bank. I immediately sat up and was relieved to see Zeke with Stuart.

  “Hi, Zeke!” I called out, waving my hand and creating an arc of water, and acting as if sitting fully dressed in the middle of a creek was something I did all the time.

  He raised his hand in greeting, his face stoic but a corner of his mouth twitching.

  I stood and slogged my way over to the bank, my skirts heavy. I did my best to squeeze the excess water out of my hair and dress but felt confident that the burning sun would efficiently do the rest.

  I blinked at the two men as a water droplet from my hair plopped into my eyes.

  Zeke nodded silently at me. Turning to Stuart, he said, “Julia’s mother has come. The dark cloud over your house has told me this.”

  I looked in the direction of the house and saw only clear sky.

  “Yes, she is here. And she has brought word of William. He has been assigned to General Sherman’s staff in Nashville.”

  Zeke grunted. “That is not far enough. Does he know you are here?”

  Stuart shook his head. “Not as far as I know. We have had no contact with him for almost a year. Unless Julia mentioned it to her mother in a letter and Pamela told him.”

  Zeke shook his head. “Then he knows. You should leave as soon as you can.”

  His words made me start. I knew Stuart was a soldier, but it had never occurred to me that he might actually leave and go back to war so soon.

  Stuart’s fists tightened at his side. “Am I the only one around here who has doubts that the Yankees could ever come this far?”

  Zeke looked at Stuart, his eyes steady. “You are no fool. And you know as well as I do that a well-supplied Yankee army that easily outnumbers Confederates could do as they please with little consequential opposition.”

  Stuart sat down and began pulling on socks and boots. Brusquely waving aside my offer of help, he yanked them on, oblivious to the pain it caused his injured leg. “I need to get back, regardless of my leg. I am so useless here.”

  “I wouldn’t call holding this family and plantation together useless.” I had no thought as to why I felt a sudden panic at the thought of him leaving.

  “My regiment is fighting for their country, and I am here, living as if the war is not even happening.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not like you chose to be shot in the leg, for goodness’ sake. And what good do you think you’d be to your men right now? Would you expect them to carry you in a battle because your leg won’t let you keep up?”

  Stuart and Zeke stared at me with raised eyebrows. Making an effort to lower my voice, I continued. “You are far more useful to your home and family right now than you would be to the Confederacy.”

  Stuart grunted and stood quickly, almost pitching forward as his leg gave out on him. Zeke caught him before he fell. His face flushed red with anger, and he glared at me. “You are a real enigma, Laura. You do not remember anything about yourself but you know a good deal about what is good for me. Why do you want me to stay? Do you need a reliable informant?”

  His soft voice cut the humid air with its vehemence. I took a step forward, my hands on my hips. “I was only trying to help. Fine. Go back to your regiment and get killed. I hope a cannonball
lands right on your head.” I kicked at a rock and turned away, trying to look as dignified as I could with water dripping from my hair and clothes.

  Stuart limped past me without a word and untethered his horse. Ignoring him, I called for the children to come out before their skin grew dimpled like raisins.

  Drying themselves as much as possible on the linen towels we had brought with us, they then threw their dry clothes over their wet underclothes and trudged after Stuart, leaving me to follow behind. Zeke sent me a look of understanding and nodded goodbye as we passed the fork in the trail that led to his cabin. We took a separate path from the one I had been on previously and soon came upon the black gates of a small cemetery. I passed through the gates, hoping Stuart would take the children home and leave me to sort out my thoughts alone. I stood in the quiet, realizing I’d been here before.

  White headstones dotted the quiet, shady knoll, the grass meticulously cut short. From this vantage point I could see two of the cotton mills of the Roswell Manufacturing Company and a sawmill that lay between the two. Seen from afar, all was a picture of the hustle and bustle of activity. But from where I stood amid the gravestones, a welcome breeze brushing my face and lifting the wet tendrils of hair off my forehead, it was curiously silent.

  A prominent white marble monument towered over the other gravestones and I walked over to it. It had been erected in memory of the town’s founder, Roswell King. I had seen this marker before when I had visited what was then known as Founders’ Cemetery with my father. Besides being a bit whiter, there had been little change through the years. I touched it with both hands, my anchor in the sea of time.

  I listened to the hum of insects as I strolled through the tiny cemetery, glancing briefly at each rounded headstone and marker. Kneeling down in front of a small stone, I traced my fingers lightly over the carved letters of a child who had died at age two years, nine months.

  I strolled slowly through the cemetery, examining every headstone, conscious that I was looking for the grave of a child with no name. I squinted to see the small lettering on the tombstones and felt a cold chill in my heart when I saw the large number of children who had been buried in the cemetery between the years of 1840 and 1841.

  Feeling a light touch on my shoulder and realizing it was Stuart, I stifled a scream. Sensing my question before I asked it, he explained, “Scarlet fever. There was almost no family in Roswell that did not lose a child.”

  I nodded in silence, not yet wanting to speak, my anger toward him still strong. A small relief passed over me as I realized that whatever dangers Annie might encounter in the nineteenth century, childhood disease would probably not be one of them. As an infant, she had been immunized against diphtheria, measles, polio, and a small assortment of others. Assuming Annie was in the nineteenth century, this was no small comfort.

  “Are you thinking of Annie?” His voice was low, concern replacing his anger.

  “Yes.” I paused for a moment to kneel by another tiny tombstone. “I’m also thinking of all the parents of these children. There can be no greater pain than the loss of a child.” Thoughts of Annie consumed me and I began to cry. I stood and furiously tried to wipe the tears away, ashamed to have anyone see me fall apart. He tried to put an arm around me, but I pushed him away and tried to walk back to the gate.

  His footfall sounded behind me as his hands grabbed me and spun me around. Wordlessly, he gathered me in his arms and held me against him.

  It had been so long since I had felt the warmth and compassion of someone’s arms around me, and it made me cry harder. The smells of horseflesh, leather, and sweat pervaded his shirt, and I found them oddly comforting. His chest was hard and solid but made a remarkably soft pillow for my head as I soaked his shirt with my tears. Long minutes later, I was cried out, with only soft hiccups remaining. I felt Stuart’s hands on the sides of my head as he tilted my face upward. With his thumbs, he wiped the tears off my face. He brought his lips close to mine and paused for a moment. I closed my eyes and felt his lips gently brush mine.

  His words barely audible, he said, “You are not alone anymore. Let me help you.” He let go of me and took two steps backward. Small clouds of tiny flying insects began to hover about us in the dwindling twilight. “But you have to be honest with me and tell me who you really are. And why you are here.”

  My hand closed over my mouth. What had I done? This was not allowed. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

  He stepped closer. “What are you afraid of?”

  I looked down at the ground, my hair dripping into the dirt around my skirts. I searched for what truth I could tell him. “Of more loss. I could not survive it.”

  He tilted my face back up to his. “You are strong.”

  My gaze rested on his lips and I knew I wanted him to kiss me again. I tried to turn away, but his hands held me captive. “No. I’m not. You’ve misjudged me.”

  His eyes darkened. “There is something else—I see it in your eyes. What is it? What is it you cannot tell me?”

  I could do nothing but look at him and then lower my eyes.

  He dropped his hand. “Why do you make me feel as if I am consorting with the enemy?”

  “I’m not your enemy. I wish you would just trust me.”

  “I wish I could.” Walking past me, he left the cemetery and grabbed Endy’s reins, which had been dragging in the red dirt. He paused momentarily. Without looking at me, he said, “I am not a patient man, Laura. I will find out. And if I discover you have been playing with our affections and deceiving us, you will live to regret it.”

  Tugging on the reins, he walked on ahead of me, leaving a trail of red dust.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We do not know the past in chronological sequence. It may be convenient to lay it out anesthetized on the table with dates pasted on here and there, but what we know we know by ripples and spirals eddying out from us and from our own time.

  —EZRA POUND

  The three red drops on my drawers alerted me to the fact that my body was functioning as normal, despite the abnormal circumstances of my life. My father, a Civil War history buff, had dragged me to the Atlanta History Center about one hundred times, the Cyclorama just as many times, and Civil War battle reenactments more times than I could count. But nothing I had ever learned could have prepared me for the realities of being a woman in the 1860s.

  Knowing by instinct that a woman’s monthly cycle would be a delicate subject, I had to consider who would be the best person to ask how to deal with it. Asking Stuart would be out of the question. Julia would probably be able to give me an answer, but only after a few horrendous moments of utter embarrassment.

  There was a brief tapping on my door, and Sukie entered with a pile of clean linens. My muscles ached as they remembered helping to wash the linens the previous day—lifting, turning, and squeezing constantly—and I was pleased to see the fruits of my labor.

  I gave her a bright smile. “Sukie, I need some help.”

  She paused in the middle of the room. “Ma’am?”

  I decided the direct approach would work best. “I need something to protect my clothing. I’m having my period.”

  She squinted at me for a moment before she realized what I was saying. “You be havin’ your monthly bleeding.” She set the laundry down on the bed and patted my sleeve. “I be right back.”

  And that was the easy part. Figuring out what to do with the cloth belt and mounds of rags that Sukie brought for me was another. Staring at the strange ensemble, I suddenly realized where the expression “on the rag” came from. Sighing to myself, and saying a quick prayer of thanks that I ovulated sporadically and nowhere near twelve times a year, I set about folding the rags in a thick bundle and inserting the ends in loops on the belt. I said another prayer of hope that the thing would stay in place.

  Walking down the stairs, I heard the soft murmur of voices. H
oping to find Julia to enlist her in teaching me about some of the plants in her garden, I approached the library. I hesitated in the hallway when I realized it was Pamela’s voice.

  “It does not matter where I got the information. It is from Sherman’s headquarters and could do the Confederacy a lot of good.” I heard the rustle of petticoats and the tapping of heels against wooden floor. “Here—take it. Use it.” Her voice was low, the word “use” coming out with a hiss. “And if you get caught, I have brought some quinine with me. You could say it is the medicine you are smuggling and nothing else.”

  Stuart’s voice was also low, but I heard enough to understand what the conversation was about. “How can you betray your own son-in-law? Does Julia know?”

  I pictured Pamela waving her hand through the air, dismissing any inconvenient thoughts. “During wartime, one must forget one’s personal loyalties and concentrate on the needs of the greater good. I am not betraying anyone. I am only doing what I can for the South.”

  The cabinet door opened, followed by the clinking of glass. I pictured Stuart pouring himself a drink. After a slight pause, he said, “And if William finds out whose side you are really on, what then? What will happen to Julia?”

  Pamela chuckled softly. “Do not worry about William. I will contend with him if the need arises. And as for Julia, I am sure you will take care of her.”

  I heard Stuart slam down the glass. “That is enough. There is nothing between Julia and me. And if I take that piece of information from you it will be for the Confederacy and not for some petty cause like thwarting William. Despite our many differences, he is still my brother, and Julia is his wife.”

  Another pause was followed by Pamela’s voice. “There is something else we need to discuss. That man, Matt Kimball, approached me yesterday in town. He wanted me to pass on a message to Mrs. Truitt. I thought I would tell you first.”