©2015 A Stitch in Time by Whitson, Inc.
©2015 A Pinch of Love by Judith Miller
©2015 Endless Melody by Nancy Moser
Print ISBN 978-1-63058-450-4
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-581-5
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-582-2
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
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Printed in Canada.
CONTENTS
A Stitch in Time
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
A Pinch of Love
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Endless Melody
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
A Basket Brigade Christmas Recipe Collection
“When five o’clock came, there were twenty or thirty women on the platform waiting for the train. Baskets of hot buttered biscuits, cold meats, pies, cakes, and pickles, with gallons of milk and cream, were ready for the supper…. When the car drew up to the platform, the men in the soldiers’ car crowded to the windows … and gave “three cheers for Decatur.” Pale, emaciated, half starved, and disheveled, the men met us with apologies for their appearance, smoothed down their hair with their fingers, and tried to hide the dirty rags that covered their wounds…. It was a sight to make angels weep. This was only the beginning … the ‘basket brigade’ [was] called into service.”
—Jane Martin Johns
Personal Recollections of Early Decatur, Abraham Lincoln, Richard J. Oglesby, and the Civil War
A Stitch in Time
by
Stephanie Grace Whitson
“My dear boy, I have knit these socks expressly for you. How do you like them? How do you look, and where do you live when you are at home? I am of medium height, of slight build, with blue eyes, fair complexion, light hair, and a good deal of it. Write and tell me all about yourself and how you get on in the hospitals.”
“P.S. If the recipient of these socks has a wife will he please exchange socks with some poor fellow not so fortunate.”
—Note accompanying an aid society shipment to the US Sanitary Commission’s Northwest Branch at Chicago
Chapter 1
Late September 1862
Decatur, Illinois
Unable to face what waited just beyond the black mourning wreath hanging on the Kincaids’ front door, Lucy Maddox hesitated at the wrought-iron gate separating her property from the neighbors’. For the third time in as many hours, she pulled her gloved hand away from the gate and stepped back.
How could Jonah Kincaid possibly be dead? She could still hear his booming laughter, still see his curly blond hair glowing in the light of the auditorium lamps at the ball the ladies had given just before his volunteer regiment left Decatur. He’d been so proud, standing head and shoulders above everyone else, a favorite son of the city, promising to “whip the Rebels and be home before Christmas.”
Tears threatened. Lucy swept her fingertips across her furrowed brow. No. She would not—could not call on the Kincaids just yet. Perhaps after a cup of strong tea. She startled when her housekeeper’s voice sounded just over her shoulder.
Martha’s voice was gentle. “Putting it off will only make it that much harder. Best get on with it.”
Lucy turned to face her. “If I can’t offer my condolences without crying, I’ll be small comfort.” She put a hand to the locket hanging on the thick gold chain about her neck—the locket bearing the images of Mother and Father, gone within six weeks of each other just three years ago. She still missed them every day, but saying farewell to the older generation was an expected part of life. The loss of someone as young and vibrant as Jonah—that was another thing entirely. Lucy shook her head. “I’ve no idea what to say.”
“Truth be told, they probably won’t remember what you say. But they’ll be hurt if you don’t go. And Lord knows, they’re already hurting enough.”
Lucy sighed. “I know you’re right. Truly, I do, but—” Her voice broke. “It’s Jonah.” When tears spilled down her cheeks, she swiped them away. Why couldn’t her feelings for Jonah fall in line with what she knew to be true? Jonah had never been more than a friend. Would never have been more than a friend, no matter what Lucy might daydream about. Why did she feel as if she’d lost more? Because you, Lucy Maddox, are a fool, that’s why. Obviously, you still harbored flickering hope. Why couldn’t she stamp out that flicker? Why?
Martha reached out and gave Lucy’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Young Mr. Kincaid was always fond of you. Everyone knows that.”
Fond. Lucy knew it was true. Why should hearing Martha speak the truth hurt?
The beloved old woman put a calloused palm to Lucy’s cheek. “Your mother would be so proud of you. Proud of the way you’ve taken up her role in the community, serving with the Ladies Aid, volunteering for every good cause. She was always a great comforter in times of distress. I’ve no doubt you will be, too.”
Lucy thought back to the countless times there’d been a knock at the door and Mother had hastened to go to someone in need, armed with little more than her worn Bible and prodigious amounts of courage, compassion, and love for both her God and her fellow man. “I wish I’d paid closer attention to how she did it,” Lucy murmured. She had no doubt that Mother would have known exactly what to say to the widowed Mrs. Kincaid, so cruelly bereft of Jonah, the eldest of her four sons.
“Mrs. Maddox always said that God gave the words just when she needed them, and not a minute before.” Martha patted Lucy’s arm. “Mrs. Kincaid knows you loved her son. She has no husband and no daughter to comfort her—only those three boys, Lord bless them. Be a daughter today. Sit beside her. Hold her hand. Weep with her. She will bless you for it.”
One of Mother’s oft-quoted Bible verses came to mind. “‘In lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves,’” Lucy murmured. “I suppose that’s the key to it, isn’t it. Think more about Jonah’s mother and brothers and less about myself.”
The deep wrinkles lining Martha’s face crinkled as the old woman smiled. “That is it exactly.” She made a little shooing motion with one hand. “Go along, now, and I’ll have a good strong cup of tea waiting when you return. Perhaps even some of my Scotch cakes.”
Lucy caught the old woman’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. As usual, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, Lucy reached for the gate latch. This time, she did not turn back.
Silas Tait tied the last black tassel in place over the Kincaids’ entryway mirror. Gripping the top of the stepladder with one hand, he leaned back to inspect his work before looking down at the housekeeper. “Does that suit?”
The woman nodded. “That’s just right, Mr. Tait. Thank you.” She patted the remaining length of black cloth draped over her arm. “It was most thoughtful of you to deliver the mourning cloth personally.”
Silas descended the ladder carefully as he spoke. “I imagine Jimmy was relieved to be assigned an errand, but once I’d read the note, it didn’t seem right to let him bear the sad burden home all by himself.”
“It’s kind of you to remember that beneath his brave act as ‘man of the house,’ there’s still a twelve-year-old boy who just lost a dear brother.” The housekeeper’s voice wavered. She cleared her throat and turned toward the parlor. “I’ll just see to veiling Minerva with this last bit while you go on back to the kitchen. Cook insists that you take some refreshment before leaving.”
Silas wasn’t hungry, but he knew better than to argue with Cook. Still, he lingered beside the ladder after he stepped down, watching as the housekeeper draped black cloth over the marble bust of Minerva, Roman goddess of the arts. As manager of Maddox Mercantile, Silas was hardly part of the social scene in Decatur, but the arrival of the crate bearing the Italian sculpture at the train station and Minerva’s subsequent placement next to the piano in the Kincaids’ formal parlor had been the talk of the town for quite some time. With Jonah’s death, Minerva would be veiled and the piano silent for weeks to come.
After gulping coffee and eating the sandwich Cook had prepared, Silas was taking his leave by way of the back door when he heard the housekeeper greet a caller. Lucy. He knew Lucy Maddox’s voice almost as well as he knew his own. He’d been hired on by her father, thelate Mr. Robert Maddox, as a tailor offering “the latest in menswear” to the dignitaries who frequented Maddox Mercantile. When Mr. Maddox passed away, Lucy surprised everyone by declaring that she had no intention of selling the mercantile. Instead, she retained ownership and asked Silas to take over the day-to-day management for her. He’d been thrilled to accept—and hopeful that Lucy’s confidence in him might breathe life into his secret wish. It had not—yet—but Silas was a patient man.
Always happy to help was a personal motto, and nothing gave him more satisfaction than being called upon to live up to that mantra. Only days after the Rebels fired on Fort Sumter, when the ladies of Decatur convinced the owner of the Magnet to print small flags to be worn as badges, Silas donated yards of white muslin for the project. When the ladies decided to create a regimental flag for the local volunteers, he knew exactly where to procure silk thread and offered to make the journey to St. Louis himself. With the formation of the Decatur Soldiers’ Aid Society, Silas spent hours driving Mrs. Kincaid and other members of the committee about town to collect shirts, sheets, pillowcases, quilts, and blankets for “the boys.” He welcomed any opportunity to help, for in a day when every young man in Illinois wanted nothing more than to fight for God and country, the artificial lower leg and foot strapped in place below Silas’s left knee meant that he would never be considered “fit for service.”
He rarely thought of the unfortunate day years ago when a bad fall led to the serious injury that refused to heal. Amputation had saved his life, and over time, his wooden leg and foot became little more than an inconvenience. He thought of it now, though, as he stood at the back door of the Kincaids’ house, listening to Lucy murmur comfort to Jonah’s mother. Would Lucy ever see him as anything but the crippled tailor hired by her father? She had no idea how he cherished the occasional sweet smile that curled the corners of her mouth when Silas suggested something Maddox Mercantile might undertake “for the cause.” He would like nothing more than to stride confidently toward the front of the house right this moment and provide a shoulder for Lucy to cry on, for in the years since he’d worked for Miss Maddox, Silas had observed much. Jonah Kincaid’s death would wound her deeply—more deeply than others might suspect. And she would welcome neither your knowing that nor your displaying uninvited sympathy. You work for her. She appreciates you for that—and that is all. So do what is needed. Get back to work.
With an inward sigh and a parting reminder to Cook to send word if there was anything more he could do to help the family, Silas stepped outside, turning the collar of his wool overcoat up to ward off a late-afternoon chill. At the end of the long drive, he glanced back at two carriages approaching from the opposite direction. Only God knew how long the stream of callers would flow this evening, but Jonah Kincaid was the first local boy to die of wounds received in battle, and that alone probably meant that Mrs. Kincaid and Jonah’s three young brothers had a very long evening ahead of them.
As he turned toward Main Street, Silas thought of other Decatur boys who’d enlisted. Samuel McHenry and Doyle Lovett. Robert Pritchard and John Rutherford. As he walked, Silas prayed. Lord, give our families grace to endure. Give our beloved president Your wisdom. Give comfort. To the Kincaids. To Lucy. And please, Lord, show me ways to serve. Insofar as the United States Army was concerned, Silas Tait was “unfit for service.” The term stung. He was determined to prove it wrong.
Chapter 2
As the evening wore on and the stream of callers continued, Lucy realized Martha was right. Words weren’t all that important. The very fact that people came—and that Lucy remained—was what mattered. Mrs. Kincaid said as much.
“You are such a comfort to me, dear.”
Shadows were lengthening, and Lucy was sitting next to Mrs. Kincaid in the parlor when the housekeeper opened the front door and admitted, along with more well-meaning callers, the familiar sound of the whistle announcing the arrival of the northbound train.
Mrs. Kincaid started and looked at Lucy. “I didn’t realize the time. Aren’t you needed at the depot?”
“They’ll understand,” Lucy said.
Mrs. Kincaid’s hazel eyes sparkled with fresh tears. “The best way to honor our dear Jonah is to care for the living. And so I must insist, dear girl, that you fulfill your duty to the Basket Brigade.” She took Lucy’s hand and rose from the settee they’d shared. “Come along, now.” Like a mother, she led the way to the foyer, took Lucy’s shawl and bonnet down from the hall tree, and pointed her to the door.
Lucy paused at the base of the porch steps, suddenly aware of just how weary she felt. Adjusting her shawl so that it hugged her neck, she hurried to Main Street, passing Maddox Mercantile just as the Widow Tompkins was locking up.
“You poor dear,” the widow said. “Mr. Tait said you were the first caller to arrive at the house earlier today. Have you been with the Kincaids all this time?”
“I have, but—Silas was there? I didn’t see him.”
When young Master Kincaid brought the note regarding the need for crape, Mr. Tait wasn’t about to let the poor boy complete such a sad errand alone. He was at the house for at least a couple of hours, helping the housekeeper with the draping. He was just leaving by way of the back door when he heard you speaking to Mrs. Kincaid. ‘She’ll be all right,’ he told me when he returned. ‘Miss Maddox is with her.’”
Lucy looked past the gray-haired woman toward the store. “Is Silas still working, then?”
“Oh, no. He’s gone back to the Kincaids. Making a ‘proper call,’ he said.” Mrs. Tompkins smiled. “I think it was just an excuse to check on those three boys, the poor dears. Would you believe that Mr. Tait knows the favorite candy of every boy in that family? He took a few pieces of each with him. Wasn’t that the nicest thing?”
Lucy agreed that it was. “We heard the train whistle, and Jonah’s mother insisted that I keep my promise to the Basket Brigad
e. She said it’s more important now than ever.”
“God bless her,” the widow said. “What’s Mrs. McHenry assigned you?”
“I’ll find out when we get there,” Lucy said. “It’s very good of you to help, by the way. I can’t imagine how tired you must be after a day on your feet at the store.”
“Oh, it’s not so terrible,” the widow said. “I’m thankful for your willingness to allow me the job.”
“You’ve Mr. Tait to thank for that,” Lucy said. “He made an excellent case for hiring you, and you’ve proven him right.” In truth, it had taken some convincing to get Lucy to agree to it, for they lived in a world where the only legitimate employment for a woman like the Widow Tompkins—who had no father or brother to provide for her—was teaching or sewing. Mrs. Tompkins had talent for neither, and she lived in a tiny two-room cottage that barely rated as a house. Taking in boarders was not possible.
“Mr. Tait would never go against your wishes, Miss Maddox, and so I thank you for saving me the indignity of becoming an object of pity—or contempt.”
Uncomfortable with the woman’s praise, Lucy was relieved that they had arrived at the depot. Several pairs of ladies with baskets brimming with food for the soldiers on board the train were already hurrying across the platform toward the hospital cars. Lucy followed Mrs. Tompkins inside, grateful for the warmth and the welcoming aroma of fresh coffee, unexpectedly overwhelmed with a sense of pride in what the ladies of Decatur had accomplished in recent months.
Every day when the hospital train reached Centralia one hundred miles to the south, the agent of the Illinois Central there telegraphed the agent in Decatur to relay how many wounded men were on the train. Armed with that information, the ladies prepared to serve them during a half-hour layover in Decatur. Over the months, Lucy and the ladies of the Basket Brigade had doled out fried chicken, pickled peaches, pound cake, apples, biscuits, sandwiches, doughnuts, and more. For a city of only six thousand souls, with at least a third of the population gone to war, it had been a monumental undertaking. The first train full of hungry, hurting men cheered the ladies, and after that no one would have dared consider suspending the project. They would serve the boys until the very last patient had been transported from overcrowded hospitals farther south to better equipped facilities in Chicago.
A Basket Brigade Christmas Page 1
