Each Other

by Pamela Erickson

Late autumn found me back in coastal northern Massachusetts. In my trip north to get home, I’d seen chevrons of geese pass overhead on their way to milder marshes. During the months that followed I thought often of the Virginia climate and my winter garden in Marsh Station. In New England, I wouldn’t see any soil for at least four months, and then only if I was lucky. After Thanksgiving, Sarah too, had returned and in that homecoming, she filled me in on her experiences working with the prisoners whom I had been forced to abandon.

  “When I first returned to Marsh Station one night from points farther south,” she told me, “I went up to your little house and saw that it looked different. I had an eerie feeling that you weren’t there, that you were gone. Having had no news, I decided that I’d check in at the Three Lanterns to see what Kate knew before I made myself at home. I’m glad I did. It probably saved my life.”

  She continued. “I’d never met Kate, but it wasn’t too hard to tell who she was. It was evening and her peacock-colored dress along with her hostess airs allowed me to find her among the crowd. I was still dressed as a young Confederate private with my hair cut short, and I slunk down at the bar where the barkeep helped me get a moment with Kate.

  Once I told her who I was, she sequestered me off to a room down the hallway where we could speak privately.”

  Putting a hand on my shoulder she spoke very directly. “Sarah,” she said. “Annie told me all about you. But, I’m afraid that I have some bad news about your sister. I think you should sit down here.” She motioned to two chairs by the window. She went on, “She was arrested last month, taken to the prison and then, luckily, traded for some Confederate. She was forced to leave Virginia and I believe that she must have headed home,” Kate said.

  The story unfolded from there. For the few weeks that followed, Kate allowed Sarah to stay at The Three Lanterns, to try to complete my work and arrange her role in the whole thing. Unfortunately, Sarah had never had the opportunity to meet Warren. Kate and Warren wanted it that way so that she would in no way, be jeopardized. In fact, no one but the two of them, and the doctor who had treated Sarah’s leg in the spring knew that Sarah and I were sisters. Kate then finalized the escape plan, detailing when and where to meet the prisoners. Warren had wanted to assist, and he insisted that he be the one to lead them on the first leg of their journey after Sarah led them away from the prison. Of course, he’d figured out that Kate, too, helped the Union all she could but I’m sure he kept that information to himself.

  Finally, once home in Massachusetts, after the first few days I begged Sarah to tell me what she saw on the night Warren was shot. I asked her to tell me every detail.

  “It’s all I’ve got to go on,” I said. “I’ve got to know everything. Please, Sarah.”

  Finally, she relented and told me everything she could recall, even the conversations of the prisoners, which I must admit, made me laugh.

  Sarah told me what I needed to hear: That his death was swift. With a wound like that, she was convinced that he died immediately.

  “I wanted to retrieve his body and bury him properly, but it was far too risky. So I waited in the woods all night to determine what to do next,” she said. By morning a group of Rebel soldiers on reconnaissance perhaps, found Ches who had circled back and had not left Warren’s side all night. Then, they found his body and removed it, taking him back to the Officer’s barn, I imagine.

  “Annie, I hate to tell you all this, but you must know. It was horrible, waiting, hiding up in the tree, waiting for the picket to leave, seeing if the prisoners could stay quiet. After I saw a small group of men leave, his killer among them undoubtedly, I quickly climbed down and ever so quietly, tiptoed through the dark night trying to find where he lay. With the fog having lifted, I found him, and checked his neck for a pulse, but there was none.”

  Once Sarah told me all that, of Warren lying in the forest, and the manner in which he died, I was overcome with grief of my own, but still I couldn’t begin to imagine how difficult that time must have been for Sarah. A night of sitting there, thinking of what she could possibly do in that situation. I had trouble collecting my thoughts. My only alternative was to retreat to my room for several days. Sarah brought me meals and sat by me for hours at a time. It was a time to think and recall, to recount and remind myself of our times together.

  For a few days, I couldn’t speak. I could only think and record my thoughts of him in a journal, in phrases, like flashes of memory frozen in words on a page. I kept asking myself: Why had he done that? He didn’t have to help with the prisoners. He could have ignored everything: my work… Katherine’s work… and just played out his role in the war. If he had done that, he might have lived, and come home to me.

  On the second morning of my retreat, I awoke with an answer. Warren had believed in my work, he’d believed in my convictions and I know now that he must have begun to believe in his own. He wasn’t content to just see the war through. He had to continue my work too. I was convinced then, that he did it for both of us, for the prisoners themselves, and the Union effort on the whole. He believed that we would be together and we’d have come to the same conclusion about the importance of the Union and in fighting for freedom, freeing both sides from the demands and the disparity of slavery.

  I found comfort in recounting our months together, three seasons, bringing those days and nights to mind. I guess I thought that if I replayed those memories enough times that not one shred of detail would ever fade and I could hold onto him, to us, that way. From that first night at The Three Lanterns when he bought me a drink, to the morning he walked Ches by the house, I fell in love with the man. I remembered my surprise at seeing his place card at Lucy’s party and then dinner with Kate and her companion. His timely visits when I least expected him, and our trip to Ashburg and Jake’s house. Each touch, each kiss, our berry pie in the swing, our mornings of love and tea and more love.

  From my room in those days of mourning, the future stood in front of me, feeling desolate, isolated, empty.

  I did emerge but stayed close to the house for weeks, finding comfort in quiet activities, spending time with my father and Sarah, preparing foods and knitting by the fire.

  Christmas passed quietly in the company of a few of my father’s friends around a delicious but simple meal in the afternoon.

  By the time New Year’s Eve came, Watch Night, as we called it that year, Sarah and I braved the weather and attended church together. While standing along with the rest of the congregation, she reached for my hand and squeezed it hard.

  Nudging her shoulder I said, “Happy New Year, Sarah. Thank you so much for coming home to keep me company.” We exchanged reserved smiles, wondering what the New Year might bring.

  Low doors on each boxed pew closed at waist height to conserve heat from the foot warmers that each family brought along in their sleigh. Candlelight lit up the large hall, where at each window, three candles’ heat frosted the panes. It had been frigid for the last few weeks and we’d had a snow covered Christmas. But despite the cold no one we knew would have missed this Watch Night celebration in our stately wooden church on the hill. The congregation that night was a mix of white and black parishioners; many of the community members having joined the efforts of the local Abolitionists. We sang a Quaker hymn then sat down to listen to the minister. I still remember that moment as I might remember one of Brady’s snapshots.

  “Good Evening everyone,” he said. “Tonight is Watch Night. Tonight we stand on the precipice of a new year. We stand together among scores of candles, thereby remembering among us the lights who have guided our paths over the last few, very difficult years. Many among us have taken dangerous paths to free our brothers and sisters, and many more have lent us their support.

  Tonight these candles, just look at them lighting our sanctuary, these candles and their light are symbolic of the thousands of men and indeed, women, who have died in this war for freedom and human dignity, taking risks that no one could imagine or even
predict were possible. Why you ask? Because of their convictions, pure and simple. The convictions that distinguish them as human beings with purpose. They knew what they had to do and they acted on it. As a result, many thousands more are free, or will be.

  Since the war began, Mr. Lincoln has called it a war to preserve the Union. But tonight as we review this year, 1862, we know that a real Union cannot be preserved or created if some of us are listed as property and slaves, while others are considered masters and free. The President’s proclamation, The Proclamation to Emancipate the Slaves , though many say it will free no man, no woman, and no child, will turn the tide, it will create the motivation, through recognition, that freedom is the true cause of this War; the true cause of why so many have given their lives. Freedom is the truth behind our democracy and on that note, there is no compromise.

  Since the Proclamation takes effect in just a few hours, after midnight, we can expect its results to be gradual, though we’d like them to happen right away. We wish for fortitude and continued courage. We pray for a deep abiding strength that encourages both North and South to look to a world beyond slave labor, a world created on the notion of dignity and respect for one another, a world where economies are built, not on the backs of slaves bought and sold, but on strong products and competitive markets where the goods, not the people are bought and sold.

  Our brothers and sisters, black and white, who have worked for the cause of freedom, are represented here. A flame lights a room without distinction for the race or skin color of those within it. Look around you, all around you, for all these candles have names…the names of people living or dead who have worked to bring dignity and return wholeness to our nation. Alone their light is meager but together, indeed, they light up the world. Attach a name to each one. Name a candle representing someone you know who housed or guided others to safety, risking everything, everything, to do so. And then, name a candle for those you’ll never know —those who sleep on the ground tonight far from their homes and those who have died in battles past and who will perish in the battles yet to be fought —they are here in the light. Yes, indeed, the unnamed are surely here among us tonight as well.”

  Outside beyond each window, in the dark night, large lacy flakes fell over the land with a hush. Sturdy oak limbs creaked in the tight coldness while horses with snow covered blankets stomped and snorted, waiting.

  I felt it. There would be a new year, a new life just below the horizon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Maryland 1891