by Mary Ellis
There was a surreal quality in the air before a battle. The din of the afternoon had mercifully yielded to an unholy quiet that evening. The common sounds of crickets and tree-frogs failed to calm Maddy, but instead added to her trepidation of what the morrow would bring. She barely touched her dinner. She completed her chores in a dreamlike state and headed to the porch to read her Bible. Tobias’s squirrel rifle, leaning against the post, offered little security. She had just settled into her favorite rocker when the distinctive sound of a sliding latch gripped her heart.
What on earth? There is nothing left in the barn to steal.
“Who’s there?” she called into the dark. “Identify yourself or I’ll shoot.” She lifted the single-shot musket to her shoulder. Moments passed interminably until a familiar face stepped into the circle of light from the kitchen window.
“Please don’t shoot. It’s me, Mrs. Howard.” General Downing pulled off his hat. “I returned your horse to the barn. You’ll not be troubled by future procurements.” Fumbling with his hat brim, he looked more like a schoolboy instead of the highest commander of an army corps.
“Thank you, General. I’m deeply grateful for the return of Bo, but I was very selfish to make such a demand on a day like this. Forgive me.” Setting down the gun, she extended her hand over the porch rail.
He walked up the steps and shook briefly. “You’re welcome. It’s true that my adjutant thought me mad to trifle with such an errand, but if the horse was to be found, it had to be tonight. Tomorrow will bring a different world than the one we know today.” He walked to the end of the porch and peered into her trampled flower garden.
A fission of fear snaked up her spine. “Did the battle go well? Did your soldiers prevail?”
“My troops were only marginally involved today. We are still awaiting final casualty numbers from the cavalry commander, but it would seem they did not prevail. We have entrenched and established our lines around Gettysburg, positioning our artillery on high ground. We are prepared to meet the enemy.” He turned to face her, leaning back against the rail. “Tomorrow my infantry will yield nothing. They won’t be pushed back, but I’m afraid the outcome is far from decided.”
“You must think me foolish to ride to Gettysburg about a horse.”
“I thought you were very brave to pursue what you wanted.” Two or three moments passed before he added, “Your husband must have been proud of your fearlessness.”
She struggled to keep her voice steady. “I had little chance to be brave during the brief time we were married. He signed up at Mr. Lincoln’s first call for volunteers.”
“My sympathies, madam, for your loss.”
Madeline shook away her painful memories. “I have coffee left from supper. Would you like a cup before you return to camp? Inside—away from these infernal mosquitos?” She pulled open the screened door.
His laughter was an unanticipated response as he followed her into the overly warm room. “Forgive me, but your question took me by surprise. On my ride here, I wracked my mind for some excuse that would allow me to sit at your table, even for a brief while.”
“Why would you be eager to sit in my kitchen? I have nothing to offer you except black coffee.” With a flutter of nerves, she reached for the china cups above the stove.
General Downing gripped the back of the chair but didn’t sit. “Because I’m far from home, and this war has stretched far beyond anyone’s early estimations. Your kitchen is like a desert oasis.” He gestured at the low-burning lamp sitting on the delicate lace tablecloth. “But mainly because I yearned to gaze again on the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen.” He spoke the words as though they were painful. A bead of sweat formed below his lip.
Madeline stared, dumbfounded, and then resumed filling two cups with the tepid brew. “Goodness, General. This war has certainly dragged on if that description fits me. My feet are blistered, my hair needs washing, and I can surely use a new dress.” She laughed to ease his discomfort.
Blushing, he averted his eyes as he accepted the cup. The confession, hanging in the humid air, had embarrassed him.
“Please sit and enjoy your coffee after an eventful day.” She slipped onto the opposite chair.
For a few moments he stared into the dark liquid. “Don’t leave your house tomorrow,” he said. “There will be heaving fighting. A young woman was killed today by a stray bullet through her kitchen door. I understand she was engaged to be married, and she was only twenty years old. Spend the day in your root cellar, where you will be safe.”
“But I can’t possibly. I need to return my minister’s horse—”
“Please, Mrs. Howard. I have a better idea of what’s coming than you.”
“Very well.” She nodded in agreement even as her chest constricted. The air seemed to have left the room. Who is this man who so affects me? His brash compliment had pleased her, stirring emotions long dormant. Yet at the same time, she felt disloyal to Tobias’s memory.
General Downing drained his cup in one long swallow and then stood. His hypnotic gaze held her transfixed. When he lifted his hand, she feared he might reach for her face. Madeline held her breath, unable to move. He was a stranger—a man she had met only two days ago.
At that moment they both heard horses in the stable yard, followed by the clatter of boot heels on her porch steps. She pushed up from the table as someone rapped insistently on her door.
“General Downing, couriers have brought word that General Buford is on his way to headquarters and wishes to confer.” The unmistakable bark of Major Henry broke their unexpected tête-à-tête.
“Thank you, Mrs. Howard, for the coffee. I’m afraid the demands of war have returned. Remember what I said about tomorrow.” He donned his hat and swept from the room without a backward glance.
She heard their horses’ hooves thundering down the road before she could reach the window. The war had returned indeed.
JULY 2
Madeline awoke coughing in the hazy dawn. Her sleep had been dream filled and restless. The window she’d left open to catch evening breezes admitted the acrid smell of smoke. Her eyes burned and began to water as she struggled to close the sash. A thick fog hung over the grassy paddocks and stripped cornfields. She bathed and dressed in her coolest frock.
After braiding her long hair in a loose plait, she donned a full-length apron and headed to the barn. Chores would occupy her hands and keep her mind off the general’s warning. How could she cower in the cellar when she had two hungry horses to feed? Physical labor would relieve the anxiety building inside her. She sought relief from her restless thoughts of James Downing too. How on earth did he find Bo among hundreds of cavalry horses? After filling the grain bins with the last of her oats, she brushed Bo until her coat gleamed and her mane was free of tangles. Later she would return the Bennetts’ gelding and buy horse feed with her dwindling cash. At the well she hauled up enough water to overflow the troughs and last throughout the day. The incessant sound of gunfire and cannon fire had begun at first light.
Carrying two more water buckets, Madeline retreated to the barn to crosstie and calm the horses. Both the gelding and her mare had turned skittish with the increasing cacophony. With chores complete she slumped down on a bale of straw in between the stalls. This was as good a place as any to wait out the bombardment. But two hours later, Maddy returned to the shelter of her house. She’d grown jumpier than her equine companions. After sponging off with cool water, she changed her dress and rummaged in the pantry for something to eat. Yet before she finished eating her meal, a deafening roar of artillery began in relentless succession. Blast after blast shook her house to its stone foundation.
Madeline threw herself into a frenzy of activity to keep from going mad. In her room, she filled her largest valise with her favorite garments, personal mementoes, Bible, and framed daguerreotypes. She emptied her small horde of cash into her reticule as if embarking on a pleasant shopping trip instead of retreating from bedlam. She wasn�
�t sure why she packed a bag, but when smoke began filtering under the door she grabbed a jug of water and her valise, and then headed to the root cellar.
The general’s plaintive words flowed through her mind as she batted away cobwebs in the cellar’s driest corner. Settling onto a rickety bench, she tried to collect her wits as the clamor increased outside her home. For an undeterminable length of time she labored to read in the light from a streaky window while waiting for the battle to cease. Cramped and exhausted, she finally closed her Bible and leaned her head against the cool stones of the cellar wall. Heedless of what spiders might lurk nearby, Madeline fell asleep in the dank confines as darkness fell across the blighted land.
Hours later, stiff and clammy, she awoke to discover that the shelling had stopped. She fumbled around for a match to light the kerosene lamp. As she struggled to ignite the wick, there was a new assault on her senses. Wood smoke—not the sulfurous fumes from cannons but the definitive smell of burning wood. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust in the dark, and then she saw with chilling certainty smoke drifting through the floorboards.
Fire. The kitchen above—her beloved home passed down from Tobias’s parents—was on fire. For several seconds she sat paralyzed until panic cut through her stupor. The cellar, her refuge during the battle, was rapidly filling with smoke.
Stuffing her Bible back into her bag, she crawled on hands and knees in the direction of the steps. Not the wooden treads from her kitchen, but the stone steps leading to her backyard. Her parched throat and seared lungs ached, and she kept her watery eyes clenched shut against the smoke. Something repulsive skittered over her fingers, while sparks and embers drifted between the cracks overhead.
Coughing and choking, with lungs desperate for air, Madeline at last bumped into the hard bottom step. She pressed her cheek against the cold stone and prayed not to die in such a loathsome place. With almost no strength left, she pulled herself up toward air and light and life, but before she reached the third step, she sank into black oblivion.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mary Ellis and her husband live near the Cuyahoga Valley National Recreation Area, home to the last remaining GAR Hall in Ohio, and Hale Farm and Village, home to annual encampments and reenactments of Civil War battles. She is an active member of the local historical society and Civil War Roundtable, where she served as secretary for several years. She has enjoyed a lifelong passion for American history.
Mary loves to hear from her readers at
[email protected]
or
www.maryellis.net
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
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