Caleb knew he should be shocked by her outburst, which went beyond the accepted standards for polite conversation. Instead, he was moved by her passion and grateful that she could speak so openly.
“Last night had to be a wrenching ordeal. I have known that same kind of powerlessness to stop the inevitable.” His jaw worked as he recalled his inability to alter the unconscionable massacre at the Washita, over in a matter of minutes but horrific for its victims. “Sometimes there are no answers to the question ‘Why?’”
“God may know, but at times like this, that is little comfort.” She cocked her head to one side, studying him intently. “Tell me about your mother. How did you go on without her?”
He rarely spoke about that time before his mother died when she filled the house with laughter and song. About her cinnamon rolls which had spoiled him forever from savoring any others. About the way she cuddled him and his brother at bedtime and made Bible stories come to life.
He must’ve gone to another place, because Lily’s voice returned him to the present. “Forgive me, Caleb. That is an overly personal question.”
“Not between friends,” he said, swallowing hard. They resumed strolling. “As a little boy, I thought I was the luckiest child in the world to have a mother who looked like a princess. Ours was a happy family. My older brother, Seth, and I never tired of her songs and stories. But she also didn’t put up with too much mischief from us. As hard as I try, though, there are some things I can never remember. But I always knew she loved me.” He was silent for several minutes. “After she died, Father, Seth and I had difficulty speaking of her. It was too painful. Besides, boys don’t cry. It was easier to let baby Sophie divert us.”
“Your mother would be proud of the man you’ve become.”
“I hope so.” Yet even in that breath, guilt washed over him. His mother, who had revered each living creature God had put on the earth, would have been appalled by what happened with Black Kettle and his band and, no doubt, ashamed of her son’s role. And even though it was a necessary cause, could she have countenanced his behavior in the heat of battle in the War between the States when his very survival depended upon killing the enemy? He sighed as he thought about the dubious acts he had committed when following orders. Perhaps it was best that he would never know what his mother might have thought of his soldiering, nor was he eager for Lily’s opinion.
The two of them were approaching the hospital when she said, “Thank you for your concern on my account and for sharing memories of your mother. Death is hard, but perhaps it shapes us in ways known only to God. We must believe something good ultimately comes from such experiences.”
He prayed it could be so, but nightmares and insomnia argued to the contrary. “Your outlook is more sanguine than mine.”
She looked up at him. “It would appear we are both searching for answers.”
To lighten the dark mood, he said, “Perhaps we should turn to the poets. John Donne would say, ‘Death, be not proud.’”
She smiled sadly. “Indeed.”
They had reached her door. “Thank you for coming to my side this morning,” she said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, the blue-gray cast to the skin beneath her eyes an indication of her exhaustion.
He gave a short bow. “Miss Kellogg, we seem to have traveled some similar roads. It is a comfort to know I am not alone.”
Now the smile relaxed and her eyes deepened into pools of blue. “Lily. My name is Lily. Your friendship is most welcome.”
He exhaled in relief. “Lily.” The name was melodic on his tongue. “Until we meet once more.”
He waited until she was safely inside and then ambled toward his quarters. The sun was full now on the horizon, and morning activity buzzed all around him. But he was ignorant of it, lost in the memories of his mother, the horrors of battle and of the one person who might either understand it all or condemn him. Lily.
Chapter Five
On an afternoon in late April, Rose, Lily and two lieutenants’ wives, Carrie Smythe and Virginia Brown, gathered around Effie Hurlburt’s dining room table to sew bandages for the hospital. Talk ranged from the gardens they planned to variations on bean recipes. Effie, ever cheerful, laughed when they complained of the upcoming heat of summer. “You cannot stop the seasons in their turn. Just as the cold winds blew in January, so July will become an oven. Best not to let either overwhelm your spirit.”
Lily acknowledged Effie’s sound advice even as she felt weighed down by the prospects of boiling temperatures. “I wish I shared your optimistic nature,” she said.
“Bother. It’s all in what you decide—life is either a pleasure and an opportunity or a dismal ordeal to be endured.”
Carrie shrugged. “You are undoubtedly right, but there are days it is hard to keep positive.”
“I think what Mrs. Hurlburt is trying to say,” Rose interjected, “is that it serves no purpose to let conditions we can’t control alter our natures.”
Lily lowered her eyes to her sewing. Was her sister criticizing her desire to escape the frontier? In fairness, each single day was bearable, made sweeter by proximity to her family. But taken in total, day after day of this existence with no end in sight ravaged her soul. Boredom was the greatest enemy. Perhaps she should be grateful for her work at the hospital, the occasional conversations with people like Effie and Caleb and the solace of a good book.
Effie’s warm voice intruded into her thoughts. “What we need is to create diversions to occupy us and help pass the time.”
“What do you have in mind?” Virginia inquired.
Effie laid down her sewing. “Now that the weather is better, the men are starting to play baseball again. Perhaps we could organize a pie supper after a few Saturday games. Not just pies, but cakes, too.”
Rose warmed to the idea. “The men enjoy home-cooked food. It would occupy us and please them. Sometimes we forget that they are far from home, just as we are.”
“Excellent point, Rose.” Effie looked around the table. “What else?”
A thought occurred to Lily. “We could organize a monthly reading—poetry, biographies, travel books. I’ve seen several of the men in the library, so I’m confident we could engage their participation.”
“I like that idea,” Carrie said. “Some of the troops cannot read well, if at all, so they might enjoy listening to others.”
“You see?” Effie beamed in satisfaction. “We can be the authors of our own entertainment.”
She rose from the table, gesturing to the rest to remain seated. “I shall fetch the pound cake and tea from the kitchen. Then we can celebrate our brilliant ideas.”
After she left the room, Rose began folding the completed bandages for laundering. “We are blessed to have such an accommodating commander’s wife.”
“I’ve been told some are cold and condescending,” Carrie ventured.
“True enough,” Virginia confirmed. “At our last post, I lived in fear of an invitation to the commander’s home.”
Lily nodded. “Our mother always said to count our blessings. And surely Effie Hurlburt is one.”
As they were eating the delicious cake, talk turned to marriage and the balance between supporting one’s soldier husband in his duties and, at the same time, attending to a marriage.
“I confess impatience with my husband when he is away on a mission,” Carrie said, “or even when he is right here, drilling, but still unavailable to me.”
“We’re always at the whim of the regiment,” Virginia complained. “Sometimes I feel as if I have no influence on our lives whatsoever.”
Lily was surprised. Usually the junior officers’ wives were more circumspect with a commander’s wife, but Effie seemed not to mind. Lily thought of her as a mentor and protector of the women stationed at the fort, and they certainly needed one.
“Marriage is a challenge, especially in military life,” Effie agreed.
Overcome by sudden curiosity, Lily laid down her fork. �
��What is your secret? How do you and the major make it all work?”
Effie brushed a crumb from her lips. “There is no mysterious formula. Commitment to one another and to overcoming any challenges is foremost. Honesty is the other.”
“What exactly do you mean—honesty?” Lily asked.
“My husband and I promised at the beginning that there would be no secrets between us. Regardless of the subject and its pleasantness or unpleasantness, we would share our thoughts and feelings.”
“Not all men are good at that,” Carrie mumbled.
“No, they are bred to be brave and to withhold their emotions. This is especially true of soldiers. But—” she grinned conspiratorially “—they can be trained. The point is not to overreact when they say something you might prefer not to hear or which is initially painful to you. With practice, husbands can become more comfortable with confidences.”
“What you call ‘training’ could be difficult,” Rose said.
“I’m not denying that, but consider the results. I’m happy, and I believe the major is, as well.”
A morsel of cake lodged in Lily’s throat. She longed for the kind of relationship Effie described, but she had already experienced one man’s reluctance to confide. Caleb had finally—and only briefly—talked about his mother, but had never said a word about his war experiences, which surely formed a large part of his identity. Lily admired the bond Effie had with her husband, one characterized by freedom and openness. Was such a thing possible? Not for most people, she imagined. Subservience was the more accepted practice for wives.
She wondered whether her parents had shared everything. For instance, could her mother have expressed her reluctance to leave Iowa? Or had both husband and wife held back, fearful of offense or hurt?
As if realizing the conversation had grown overly intimate, Effie changed the subject. “Now then. The first baseball game is this coming Saturday. Let’s talk about the desserts we will prepare.”
Rose agreed to make three raisin pies while Lily volunteered a chiffon cake. She wished a pie supper or a series of readings would change her attitude about being here, but she doubted it. When she returned home today, she would write a letter reminding Aunt Lavinia of her hopes for a St. Louis visit.
* * *
“Caleb!” Buried in darkness, Caleb heard a voice, felt himself being roughly shaken. “Wake up, man!”
Indians screaming war whoops hounded him from all sides, bullets hailed down upon him and the earth trembled with the reverberations of cannon fire. Moaning, he clawed his way to consciousness. Will Creekmore stood over him, his face illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the window of the officers’ barracks. “Montgomery, can you wake up?”
Caleb tried to focus, then sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, groggy and disoriented. “The dream,” he croaked.
“Again?”
All Caleb could do was nod in disgust and humiliation. The ghosts of combat refused to relinquish him. He had come to dread sleep because of the horrific night visitors. He wiped beads of sweat from his brow even as he shivered in the cool night air. Mustering strength, he stood and clapped Will on the back. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”
Will smiled ruefully. “You’re not alone. We all have our battle scars.”
That was true, and Caleb understood each man’s struggle was personal. “Go back to bed, friend.” He drew on his trousers. “I’ll be fine. I just want to clear my head.”
He stepped out on the front porch, needing to purge from his body and soul the terrors that sat upon him like lead weights. Would this torment ever abate? Could anything or anyone cleanse his poisonous memories? He leaned on the railing, gazing over the encampment. Others were sleeping, most, peacefully, he surmised. But on nights such as this, sleep was a luxury he could not afford to indulge, not when it might invite again such troubled dreams.
He looked up at the sky, brilliant with moonglow and starlight. If there was a God, was He up there? Amid the countless stars, why would He concern himself with one tortured cavalryman? And yet... “His eye is on the sparrow...”
He reminded himself of the good in the world. His family. His loyal troops, some risking their lives to carry wounded mates to safety. Lily—a lovely young woman acquainted with grief. He must not, however, come to depend upon her to be the light in his darkness. Rather he should spare her his demons.
Such wisdom, though, was at odds with his instincts toward friendship. What could friendship hurt? Her frequent visits to her mother’s grave confirmed that a military outpost could be a lonely place for a woman, too. As he remained on the porch, surrounded by night sounds, gradually an image of Lily replaced that of his nightmares. He fixed on it, grateful for his clearing mind and slowing respiration.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, but finally he went back inside, lighted the lantern and tried to lose himself in Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield. Unable to concentrate, he set the book aside and picked up a piece of paper and a pen. He held the pen in the air, gathering his thoughts. Finally he dipped it in the ink and began writing. With each succeeding stroke, he felt his torment subside.
* * *
May 1 dawned with the cheery songs of birds and the tantalizing aroma of hotcakes. Lily patted the empty space on the mattress beside her. Rose was already up and cooking. Cocooning herself in the covers, Lily lay listening to the avian reveille, soon joined by the bugle version. She found something predictably reassuring about military schedules, which, like clocks, remained constant.
She had posted her letter to Aunt Lavinia and hoped she had been subtle but effective in saying how much she anticipated reuniting with her aunt and being introduced to the wonders of St. Louis. She knew such a trip would be expensive and that her father could not afford the entire cost. Months ago, Lavinia had offered to underwrite the expense. Had she forgotten? Or was the delay merely about timing? Lily appreciated that summer was not the season to go, but if she was to travel in the fall, plans had to be made.
She sighed, then reluctantly left the warmth of the bed and moved to the pitcher and basin on the nightstand to make her morning ablutions. She chose her rose-colored dress, which seemed a fitting way to greet the new month.
Her father was already sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. Rose bustled at the stove, pouring more batter into the sizzling iron skillet. “Good morning, everyone,” Lily said.
Her father smiled. “Top of the morning, daughter.”
“I didn’t mean to dawdle, but it was so cozy.” She moved to Rose’s side. “How can I help?”
“Put the butter and honey on the table and I’ll bring the hotcakes.”
When they were all seated, Ezra said grace. Lily had just picked up her first forkful of food when she thought she heard a light tap on the door. Rose, too, cocked her head toward the sound. “Did you hear that?” Lily asked.
Her father looked up. “What?”
“Perhaps a knock,” Rose said. “I’ll go.”
When she didn’t return right away, Ezra called, “Was anyone there?”
“Not exactly,” Rose said, a hint of laughter in her voice. When she came back into the kitchen, she concealed something behind her back. Ezra regarded her expectantly. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”
“A surprise was left on our doorstep.” Then she produced a small bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in a newspaper secured with twine. “Happy May Day, Lily.” Rose beamed, handing the bouquet to her sister and winking at her father.
A blush rose to Lily’s cheeks as she studied the flowers. Nestled among the wild violets, primroses and sprigs of fern was an envelope inscribed with her name.
“It would seem you have an admirer,” her father said. “I remember well the times I left a May Day bouquet at your mother’s door when I was courting.”
Lily set the bouquet on the table and pulled a note from the envelope. Scanning it for a signature, she murmured, “Not an admirer, Pa
pa. A friend.”
Then engrossed in the message, she failed to see a knowing look pass between her father and sister.
In strong masculine handwriting, the words blurred in her vision as she recalled her last conversation with Caleb at her mother’s grave.
If when thy thoughts to gloom do fly
And sorrow seeks thy soul to cloy,
Mayhap these blooms may still thy sigh
And serve as harbingers of joy.
A friend
“Well?” her father studied her inquiringly.
Rose, as usual in sympathy with her sister, deflected his question. “I think, Papa, that such a gift is not meant to be immediately shared.” She picked up the platter and handed it to Ezra. “Have another hotcake.”
Lily, overcome with confusing emotions, silently blessed her sister for her tact. And blessed Caleb, whose poetic bent and sensitivity to her mother’s loss belied a soldier’s stoicism.
* * *
The Saturday of the baseball game was especially hot for May. By late morning, the flag hung motionless from the pole and open windows did little to cool interiors. Lily pulled her cake from the oven, lamenting the slightly burned top. Rose’s pies were perfect, so, as usual, Lily’s baking paled by comparison. No matter. The soldiers would not be picky.
By one o’clock Rose and Lily were at the makeshift ball field where, under Effie Hurlburt’s direction, some enlisted men were assembling trestle tables for the baked goods and others were erecting plank benches along the baselines for the spectators.
Laura Abbot Page 6
