Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  Sarah came out and stood next to me, her hand clutched on my skirt, and tilted her head at the man she called her father, as if she no longer recognized him. I leaned against a pillar, my arms crossed in front of me, and watched the soldiers march toward us on the dirt drive. “I don’t know what kind of hospitality you’re looking for, but you won’t find it here. The house is empty of all food and the garden is dead. Even if there were food, there would be little we could eat.” I couldn’t resist a small smile. “I don’t cook.”

  William sent me a brief glance before sliding from his horse. “Not to worry, Laura. We have brought enough provisions, and I am sure one of the men can do the cooking.”

  He walked up the steps toward me. I stepped back, giving him a wide berth to walk past us and into my house.

  We settled into a familiar routine revolving around mealtimes. Happily, this was the only time I was forced to endure his company. The rest of the time I spent in my room or in the library, reading to Sarah. We took long walks in the woods and visited Zeke’s deserted cabin several times until Sarah asked that we not go anymore. She said it made her too sad. I wrote to Julia in Valdosta, letting her know of my return with Sarah, and I waited each day for her reply.

  I didn’t have the heart to play the piano, as it reminded me of happier times with Stuart. And I made sure my door was bolted every night, knowing that William was in the house and watching me like a cat would a mouse. Mostly, I bided my time, knowing September quickly approached.

  The second week after my return, the nights turned suddenly cool, offering a brief respite from the sticky heat of the day. I threw my windows open wide, allowing the bright moonlight to illuminate the room, and drifted to sleep listening to the cicadas and other night creatures.

  The hand over my mouth startled me and brought me to the edge of sleep, not quite awake. When I tasted salty sweat, my eyes flew open to stare at the dark form hovering over me.

  “I will move my hand if you promise me you will not scream, little sister. And if you break your promise, you will be sorry.” His other hand rested on my neck, and he applied enough pressure to make me choke. I silently nodded.

  William removed his hand but kept hold of my arm so I couldn’t escape as he sat on the side of the bed. He smelled strongly of alcohol, and his hot breath stung my eyes. I backed myself against the headboard as far as I could go.

  He reached out his hand and caressed my cheek. “Surely you find me more attractive than General Sherman.” I saw a flash of white in the darkness and could picture the leer across his face.

  I bent my knees back and kicked him in the chest with both of my feet, loosening his hold on my arm, then lurched for the other side of the bed. I became entangled in the bedclothes and tumbled to the hard floor. He leaned toward me. In panic, I scooted away from the bed and felt his hand grab hold of the hem of my nightgown. My feet managed to find the floor, and with a loud tearing sound, I ran for the door.

  “You bitch!” he roared, grappling to his feet.

  I reached the door and pulled. It was locked. I turned around, my hands pressed against the door, and saw him lunge at me. I did the one thing that I remembered from my self-defense course. I raised my knee and brought it in direct contact with his crotch.

  The effect was immediate. He dropped to his knees, his forehead against the wood floor. I turned the key and opened the door wide. Leaning over him, I hissed, “Get out of here. And if you ever try a stunt like that again, I will personally tell General Sherman. I would do it now, except for the disgrace you would bring to this family.”

  He tilted his head up to me, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. “You will pay for this, Laura. You sanctimonious little whore.” He swiped at his mouth with his sleeve, his breathing ragged. “You have not seen the last of me.”

  He staggered to his feet and left the room without a backward glance.

  I stood in the doorway long after I heard the latch to his door click into place. I slammed my door, then raced to the windows, shutting them tightly one by one. I should have realized that any boy who had been raised in this house would know which trees to climb.

  I didn’t see William for several days. I knew that there was a flurry of activity around the burned bridge as the Yankees worked diligently to rebuild it. I assumed William was thus occupied, and breathed a sigh of relief. Still, I spent most of my hours in my room or Sarah’s, spending as much time with her as I could, as if my mind realized something my heart couldn’t yet see. We read a lot, and sometimes I just stared out the window, thinking of Stuart whenever my mind would catch me off guard.

  On the evening of July 14, I sat in my room after Sarah had gone to bed, watching dusk gather in the sky, one hand resting on my abdomen. Despite being nearly four months pregnant, I barely showed, the rise under my nightgown hardly noticeable. The sounds from the men encamped around the house changed subtly, and I got up to look out the window. Holding the curtain aside, I peered out at the dozen or so campfires dotted around the yard. In the field beyond, a colony of fireflies glowed and dimmed, glowed and dimmed in a primal mating dance. A movement by the side of the house caught my attention. Three uniformed men staggered together, one of them holding a lit torch. Their drunken laughter carried up to me, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that they were heading for the smokehouse. The grass was dry and withered and it wouldn’t need much of a fire to burn everything up, including the house.

  Grabbing my shawl, I unbolted the door and flung it open. I had reached the top of the steps when the front door flew open and two men on horseback rode into the foyer, sabers raised, slashing at the walls and upholstered furniture, bringing to mind Mrs. Cudahy’s words. Soldiers stood outside with torches. I ran back to wake Sarah, then grabbed Sherman’s letter and raced down the back stairs and out the back door.

  I left Sarah on the porch with the letter and with instructions not to move and to scream if anybody came near her, then flew across the backyard, my bare feet gripping the cool grass as I ran toward the torches, realizing too late that in my haste I hadn’t grabbed a weapon.

  I reached them just as the taller soldier was opening the door to the smokehouse, preparing to toss the torch inside. All three soldiers swayed, apparently in no condition to walk a straight line. Lunging myself at the soldier, I knocked him out of the way. The torch flew from his hands and landed in the brown grass several feet away.

  I took the shawl in both hands and beat furiously at the torch and small fire feeding itself on the dried grass. My arms pumped at a frenzied pace and I continued to beat the helpless ground until only dust rose to drift out over the field.

  Finished with my task, I turned my fury on the three soldiers swaying on their feet and staring at me with disbelief and anger mingled on their faces.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? You idiots! You could have burned the whole house down—with me and my daughter in it. You have the combined brains of a pea!” Having no weapon, I stuck my toes in the dirt and kicked it at them.

  Stooping to gather up the smoldering torch and take it out of harm’s way, I turned around and began to walk back to the house. I felt rather than heard the rush of air behind me.

  The impact knocked me facedown in the dirt and temporarily took the breath from me. Someone was lying on my back and I could smell his stale whiskey breath while his rough beard stubble chafed my cheek. I felt my assailant get off of me and roughly grab hold of my shoulders and flip me over on my back. My almost-healed wound screamed in pain, but I had no time to think about it.

  I tried to scramble to my feet but his hands held me down.

  “Look here, boys. See what I got.” His hat had fallen off in the scuffle and the sweat dripped down his forehead and cheeks.

  His hands groped at my breasts and I started fighting him in earnest. Drunk or not, the man was too strong for me and was able to pinion both hands a
bove my head with one hand while the other one tried to reach under my nightgown. Luckily, the other two were either too drunk or too stunned over what was happening to join their companion in his obscene dance.

  Fighting panic, I struggled with renewed vigor. I opened my mouth to scream, only to have a callused hand smother any sound. He moved his hand off my breasts and began to fiddle with the top of his pants. He shifted his weight and rose on his knees. Seeing my chance to knock him off balance, I sat up, shoving both hands at his chest. He fell backward.

  No longer captive, I clambered to my feet and began stumbling toward the house. I hadn’t gone very far when I heard the distinctive sound of a pistol cocking. I stopped and turned around slowly. My attacker was on his knees and was unsteadily pointing his pistol at me.

  “It takes a brave man to shoot an unarmed woman in the back!” I shouted with false bravado as I turned around and began walking slowly toward the house.

  An officer on horseback raced around the corner of the house, but I continued walking, not wanting to stop until I had reached the sanctuary of my room, with the door bolted securely behind me.

  The sound of a gun firing made me jump. I could hear the blood rushing in my head, but I forced myself to remain calm. Without turning around I shouted over my shoulder, “You missed!” and kept walking.

  The officer dismounted and walked quickly toward me, shouting at the soldier to drop the gun. He grabbed my arm as I tried to make my way past him. “What is going on here?” he barked.

  I knew this face—I had seen it many times in history books. The broad forehead, dark wavy hair and beard, the affable Scottish looks. General James B. McPherson.

  I looked him squarely in the eye. “Three of your gallant soldiers just tried to set fire to my house. Failing at that simple task, they then decided that a good game of rape would be a fun thing to do. Luckily, for me at least, they failed at both attempts. Now, if you would be so kind as to let me go, I would like to go inside. I’d appreciate it if you could keep your men under control while they are on my property.”

  Other soldiers had run to restrain the man that had attacked me. General McPherson examined my disheveled state, the charred shawl flung over my shoulders. “My apologies, madam. But these men have been given orders to burn this house and its surrounding buildings. The owners are not only major stockholders in the Roswell Manufacturing Company, supplying the Confederate Army, but they are also known rebels.”

  I yanked my arm from his grasp. “No, that can’t be! Who gave those orders?”

  “I did, ma’am. And I received my information from a reliable source—Captain William Elliott on General Sherman’s staff.”

  I began to shake. How could he do this to his own family? “That son of a bitch,” I muttered under my breath.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I looked back at him and shook my head. “Never mind. It’s not important.” My mind began to race, conjuring up possible solutions to this nightmare.

  “I will need you to evacuate this house as soon as possible.”

  “Wait!” I felt my face crease into a wild smile. “I have a letter from General Sherman himself, protecting this property. Hold on.” I ran to the back porch and took the letter from Sarah, then handed it to General McPherson.

  He held the deeply wrinkled letter up in the fading light, scanning the words. He lowered it slowly. “My deepest apologies. I do not know how this misunderstanding could have happened. I will ensure you are protected. When my troops depart, I will leave a guard.”

  He handed the letter back to me and I clutched it to my chest. “Thank you. I’m going inside now. I trust you will see to it that the man who attacked me is duly punished.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Again, my deepest apologies.”

  I started walking but turned back, thoughts of lost love heavy on my mind. If my memory of my history book was correct, this man had less than a week to live. “General McPherson.”

  He stopped, surprise registering on his face that I should know his name.

  I continued. “I have a strong feeling you should write your fiancée soon. Perhaps tonight before you retire.” He opened his mouth to say something, his expression quizzical, but was interrupted by shouts behind him from the man who had attacked me and who was now being restrained. I walked to the house without turning back and collected Sarah from the porch.

  The foyer was in a shambles. Feathers from chair cushions floated about the floor like snow. Deep gashes marred the wallpaper, leaving it to hang in large sags. But the soldiers were gone and the house had been saved. From the bottom of the stairs, I saw an orange glow in the sky from the upstairs hallway window, and I knew someone else’s house had gone up in flames. Again, I heard Mrs. Cudahy’s voice in my head. She was saying something about how no one knew why Phoenix Hall had been spared destruction. And now I did.

  I put Sarah to bed and she soon fell sound asleep, untouched by the nightmare of the world around her. I stared at her sleeping face, this child that was mine but not mine. This was her home, her time, her people. How could I take her with me? Yet how could I leave her?

  I bolted the door and crawled under the covers with Sarah, listening to her soft breathing, as I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Love knows not distance; it hath no continent;

  its eyes are for the stars.

  —SIR GILBERT PARKER

  Less than a week later, the soldiers were gone—creeping ever southward toward the prize of Atlanta. The end was near. General McPherson was true to his word and left a guard and plenty of food to get us through the next several months. He also mentioned that William had disappeared, probably deserting the army. I hoped that he had fled west and that I would never see him again.

  I was out by the well, drawing water, when I heard the unmistakable sound of wagon wheels. I had grown accustomed to this sound as refugees continued to move out from Atlanta and seek shelter from the invading army in the Georgia countryside. But this wagon was approaching the house, coming to a halt on the front drive.

  Dropping the bucket, I walked quickly to the side of the house to see who my visitors might be and wondering why I hadn’t heard the guard.

  Turning the corner, I spotted the guard sitting on the front porch steps, busily munching on hardtack and oblivious to the wagon that had pulled up in front of the house.

  I opened my mouth to speak when I heard my name. I stopped in disbelief as Julia and Zeke appeared from the other side of the wagon.

  “Zeke! Julia!” I ran to them, my arms outstretched.

  Sarah bounded out the front door, her small legs almost flying as she threw herself into Julia’s arms. “Mama!” she shouted. Their heads bent together, and they cried and laughed at the same time. I turned to Zeke, unable to watch the reunion between mother and daughter.

  He embraced me, and it felt good to have somebody’s arms around me again. I wept on his shoulder as he stroked my hair.

  “You are leaving us.”

  I nodded, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

  Julia stilled, her arm around Sarah. “Please, Laura. Stay with us.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t, Julia. I’m going to have a baby.”

  Julia gave a shriek of delight and threw her arms around me, catching me off guard. “Zeke told me you had married Stuart. I am so delighted for you. Now there is even one more reason for you to stay.”

  Tears, which always seemed near the surface every time I thought of Stuart and of leaving this place, spilled down my face. “I have to go back. I can’t survive childbirth here. Besides, Stuart doesn’t think the baby’s his.” My voice hitched on my last words.

  Zeke and Julia both wore stunned expressions. “It’s a long story—but of course it’s his. Suffice it to say that William contributed to the seed of doubt in Stuart’s mind.”

  Juli
a grabbed my arm. “You’ve seen William.”

  I looked into her warm brown eyes and knew she could handle the truth. “Yes, Julia, I have. And Pamela, too.” I saw the panic in her face just as I realized that we were missing someone. “Where is Willie?”

  “I left him with the Holcombs. I didn’t want to bring him until I knew it was safe. I will send word to let them know they can come home now.”

  I threw my arms around her and Zeke again. “Why don’t we go inside and have some coffee—the real stuff—and we’ll talk about everything?”

  We talked long into the afternoon until the low rays of sun faded into dusk. Sarah sat at Julia’s feet, never letting go of Julia’s skirts, as if she were afraid they would be separated again. Eventually, the little girl fell asleep, and I was able to speak more freely about what had happened in the months since we had seen each other.

  As darkness grew, Zeke lit the lamps while Julia and I prepared supper. Julia had listened in silence as I told her about Pamela’s death. She had not thrown accusations at me, but I still needed her forgiveness.

  I broached the subject amid the clatter of china and silverware. “Julia, I’m sorry for your loss. But I can’t say that it wasn’t for the best.”

  She let the remaining silverware in her hand drop on the mahogany table and walked over to me. “I owe you so much. I am not one to question your motives. You have shown incredible strength and courage, and I shall always be grateful for that.” Her hand swept the hair off my forehead in a maternal gesture. “You rescued Sarah and saved my house—there is nothing to forgive. You did what few of us would have had the courage to do.” I felt an inner peace as she reached for my hands and squeezed them. We returned to our chores and didn’t speak of it again.

  Zeke and Julia stayed with me through the long days of August. Julia and I talked of babies while Zeke whittled or just sat in comfortable silence next to us. I half hoped for word from Stuart, but none came, and I buried my hope deep inside me.