by Jan Drexler
When Mama frowned, Papa put a restraining hand on her arm. “Leave the girl be, Mama. The table looks nice.”
Her frown softened as she looked at Papa. “You don’t think it’s too fancy?”
“Not at all. It’s a bit of cheer on a snowy day.”
Papa smiled at Katie, giving her a wink, and Katie smiled as she took the corn cake out of the oven. The red flower buds glowed in the light filtering through the window, and as she cut the cake, she looked toward the woods beyond the creek where she could see the top edge of the house Jonas was building.
She looked again. It was gone. Her house was gone.
“Katie, come sit down,” Mama said, taking the pan of corn cake from her and setting it on the table. “What’s wrong with you?”
“The house,” Katie said, standing on her tiptoes. Maybe the trees were in the way. “I can’t see the house Jonas is building.”
“Sit down and eat,” Papa said. “The storm probably knocked it down, but that isn’t a problem. It can be built again.”
Katie obeyed Papa, sitting and bowing her head for the silent prayer, but her thoughts were far away. Of all the things surrounding her day in and day out, the house was the one thing that held the greatest memories of Jonas. The hours they had spent planning it and their future together. The days and weeks Jonas had spent clearing the land, preparing the lumber, building the walls. And now they were gone.
The house could be built again, like Papa said, but with it gone . . . Katie sighed, pushing down the lump that was rising in her throat. With the house gone, where could she be close to Jonas and her memories of him?
Papa moved his plate, the signal that the silent prayer was over, and reached for a piece of corn cake. “The storm did more damage than to Jonas’s house. It blew some shingles off the chicken house and one of the trees on the lane to Karl’s was blown down.” He cut his piece of cake in half and let a pat of butter melt into the hot slice. “I’ll replace the shingles this afternoon, but I’ll have to get the boys to help me with the tree.”
“Do you think they could repair Jonas’s house too?” Katie asked. “Maybe we could rebuild the walls.”
Papa watched her as he chewed his cornbread, his beard moving up and down as he considered her question. “We’ll leave it be, I think. We have an entire winter to get through, and another storm could knock it down just as easily as this one did. Wait until Jonas comes back, and then we’ll help him rebuild.”
Katie stirred her bean soup, watching the pieces of ham disappear beneath the surface and then rise again. As long as the house had been standing, she could believe that Jonas was still standing too. But with the house gone . . . She stopped her thoughts. Jonas would be all right. His letters told that he was well and ready to come home. It was silly to think that the fate of the house would also be Jonas’s fate. She stirred her soup again. If only she could see into the future. If only she could know he was going to come home to her.
NOVEMBER 13
The day after the storm, Lydia rejoiced in the bright sunshine. The storm had been a foretaste of the coming winter’s dark days, and she wasn’t ready for it. Not yet. Taking advantage of the reprieve, Lydia was spending the afternoon cleaning the chicken house and filling it with a deep blanket of fresh straw.
“Lydia?” Katie stuck her head in the open doorway. “Are you in here?”
“Ja, for sure.” Lydia leaned the pitchfork against the wall. “I’m just making the hens’ winter bed.” She went out into the sunshine but stopped when she saw Katie’s expression. “What’s wrong?” Lydia took a step back. “Has something happened to Jonas?”
Katie shook her head. “I’ve brought some letters from him that were at the post office Tuesday.”
Relief flooded through Lydia so strongly that she had to sit down on the chopping block nearby. “I’m so glad to hear that. When I saw your face, I thought something terrible had happened.”
“It has,” Katie said, handing her the letters she had brought. She sat on another log by the woodpile. “The storm blew down the walls Jonas had built before he left.”
“That’s too bad.” Lydia crinkled the envelopes between her fingers. Two letters. “But Jonas can rebuild it when he comes home.”
“If he comes home.”
Katie looked miserable, leaning her chin on one hand and gazing toward the woods. Lydia tucked the letters into the waistband of her apron.
“Let’s go inside. I have a pot of coffee on the stove.”
Lydia placed the precious letters on the shelf where Abraham kept the Good Book and pulled the coffeepot to the front of the stove, where it would heat quickly. She took down two cups and set them on the table before sitting across from Katie.
“You know that Jonas is in the Good Lord’s hands. We’ve talked about this.”
“Ja, ja, ja. But that doesn’t keep me from worrying about him.” Katie leaned on the table. “Don’t you worry about him too?”
Lydia started to deny Katie’s question, but then remembered her reaction when she thought Katie was bringing bad news.
“Worrying is something we do, whether we should or not. But that doesn’t mean we need to. We need to keep Jonas in our prayers and commit him to the Lord.”
“But the house . . .” Katie shook her head. “I know it’s just lumber and walls and nails, but Jonas worked so hard on it.”
Lydia got the hot coffee from the stove and poured some into each cup. “And it’s a reminder, isn’t it?”
“A reminder?”
Blowing across the hot surface of her cup, Lydia thought about how to say what she meant.
“Upstairs, in Jonas’s room, I have reminders of his past. The quilt I made for him when he was a little boy, and some of the toys he played with. The house he is building for you is a reminder of his future. The dreams of the two of you living there together and raising your family there.”
Katie nodded. “For sure, that’s what it is. When I’m there—” She stopped. “When I used to go there, I would remember our plans. It was as if he was there, dreaming along with me. But now, I don’t have anything.”
“You still have your dreams. They aren’t gone.”
“But I can’t help thinking that it’s a sign. He might not come home to finish the house.”
“We don’t have any reason to believe that. We must continue to pray for him and trust the Good Lord for his safety.”
Katie chewed her lower lip, her coffee forgotten. “I don’t know . . .”
“You don’t still think about that curse, do you?”
Katie shook her head, then nodded. “I don’t know what to believe. I want to forget that it ever happened, but Jonas is in such danger.”
“Not all of the time. He’s written about some of the things that happen in camp, and the long hours of marching, day after day.” Lydia smiled, thinking of some of the fun times Jonas had written about, and waited until Katie smiled too. “He will be in danger at times, but that’s where we need to place our trust in God, not in superstition.”
“Do you really think he’s going to come home?”
A cold chill ran through Lydia. “I don’t know. Sometimes I’m afraid he won’t. But whatever happens, I know that we can rely on the Good Lord to keep us strong and hope for the best outcome.”
After Katie left, Lydia took the letters from the shelf and leafed through them. She should wait for Abraham to read them, but she had to know how Jonas was doing. She opened the letter with the most recent postmark and unfolded the paper.
Warrenton, Virginia
November 5, 1862
Dear Mamm and Datt,
I take my pen in hand today to let you know that I am well. My health is good, and most days I am warm and fed.
Some ladies from a church in Washington City took it upon themselves to knit stockings for the troops, and our company received some of their handiwork. My new stockings are not pretty, and one is much larger than the other, but they are thick and warm.
I am grateful to the young knitter who made them. The note that accompanied the stockings said that she is twelve years old, and these were the first stockings she has knitted by herself. It brings to memory the first pair of stockings Elizabeth made for me all those many years ago. A labor of love is not quickly forgotten.
Our captain has informed us that we will be camping here in Warrenton for a number of days, perhaps as long as two weeks, so George and I have made a tent out of our rubber blankets. The two together make a warm and waterproof dwelling, and we are happy with it. Our friends from Cleveland have made a similar shelter, so we are ready, no matter what weather November throws our way.
Camp life can be boring, but our prayer group is using the opportunity to meet together every evening, while many of the rest of our company entertain themselves with more sordid pursuits. One of the boys, Peter Williams, was a seminary student in Pittsburgh before he was called up and brings many subjects up for discussion. There can be quite a debate between the Methodists and the Lutherans and the Presbyterians about certain subjects, but I don’t enter the debates. I only listen and learn. I do miss the discussions Levi and I used to have, though. I look forward to seeing what he thinks of these ideas from other denominations.
We sing together at the end of these discussions, and the hymns unite us, just as singing from the Ausbund does in our worship services at home. I am learning new songs, of course, since none of these fellows know the hymns we Amish sing. A favorite of mine is “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” When the boys sing it, gathered ’round the fire in the evening, I feel as if I see the sky itself cleaved in two and angels beckoning me to come to my Lord. Even though that is only a fancy of mine, it gives me great comfort as we come closer to the time of engaging in battle. The Lord is watching over his people, and if my time to die should come, I am as confident as I can be that he will care for my soul in his own way.
I don’t mean to be so maudlin, dearest parents, but I only wish to give you hope and joy, no matter the outcome of my time in this army. I am deeply content, except that I wish with all my heart to be at home with all of you. Pray for a speedy end to this war.
Yours at all times, and especially at the present,
Your son, Jonas
NOVEMBER 16
Rain and cold. Jonas had heard that the farther south one traveled, the milder the weather became. But this northern Virginia weather was more miserable than any Ohio November he remembered.
After marching for three days, the regiment had made camp in a field somewhere northeast of Winchester, and Jonas had little hope that this torture would ever end. George let him know his feelings on a daily basis.
“This isn’t what we signed up for,” he said on their second day in camp.
Jonas put another stick on the fire. He was trying to heat up their supper of beans before the rain started again. “You didn’t sign up. You were drafted.”
George shifted his hat forward so the brim covered his face as he stretched out on the soggy ground. “Even so, if we’re going to be in the army, I’d like to see some action. The Rebs are right over that hill, according to what I heard.” He waved his arm in a direction that might have been to the west.
“You can’t believe camp rumors. The Rebs are always over the next hill. But I’m sure we’ll see our share of fighting before long, and I doubt if you’re going to like that.”
“It would be better than dying of boredom.”
Jonas took the pot off the fire and stirred it. The beans steamed in the chilly air. “Your dinner is done.”
He dished the mess onto two plates and took his under the cover of the tent as a light drizzle began to fall. But he had only taken his second bite when a bugle call sounded for assembly.
George stuck his hat back on his head and took a bite of the beans as he grabbed his rifle. Jonas poured the pot of coffee he had just made over the fire to douse it and took his rifle. The bugle call continued as the camp all around them sprang to life. Jonas and George reached the assembly ground and slid into line while Jonas was still fastening his coat. He couldn’t seem to get used to the buttons.
Captain Wentworth started speaking as soon as the last stragglers got into line. “A regiment of rebel soldiers has been spotted by our scouts some two miles to our northwest. We assume they know our position and are maneuvering to cut us off from the main body of the army along the Rappahannock River. Our company will be joining the rest of the regiment in an effort to dissuade them from their objective.” The captain paused, surveying the lines of soldiers in front of him with a frown. “You men have not yet been tried. None of you has seen a battle, and few, if any, of you have ever fired a rifle at another man. Remember your training. Remember your objective. Once the enemy has been routed, we are under orders not to pursue him.”
The next hour was a jumble of confusion to Jonas. First, the order came to march, and then to stop. Silence was to be maintained, and then a few minutes later, orders were shouted. He stayed close to George and the rest of his company, but as they marched over the uneven ground, the lines straggled and disappeared. Then they came to a road and were ordered to line up along it.
Captain Wentworth passed along the line, instructing the men. “Load your weapons, but hold your fire until given the order. Do not, under any circumstances, fire blindly. If you don’t see your target, you could easily be shooting at one of our own men. The enemy will come along this road, and our job is to stop him.” He paused, chewing on the cigar he always had with him but never lit. “Do you understand?”
At the assent from his men, Wentworth took his position and they waited. Jonas checked his gun. He had fired it enough during training to know that it pulled slightly to the left and had adjusted the sights to compensate. Hitting the target was easy. He never missed. But that was when his target was made of straw.
“Are you nervous?” George whispered the question, his eyes on the road.
“A little. Are you?”
“A bit. It’ll be different, shooting a man.”
“Ja, for sure it will.”
A soldier Jonas didn’t know was on the other side of George. “This your first fight?”
George nodded.
“Just remember that if you don’t shoot the Rebs, they’re going to be shooting you. And they won’t hesitate to kill you dead, or the man next to you. So shoot the enemy. The man you may save might be me.” He gave them a grin and went back to watching the road.
In the distance they could hear the tramp of feet on the packed dirt. Jonas felt the familiar turn of his stomach that came when he had to hunt deer back home. He shut his eyes as the metallic smell of blood flooded his memory. This was it. This was the test of whether he was a coward or not. He loosened the tight grip on his gun that made his hands ache and grasped it again. He went through the motions of firing his rifle in his mind. Lift, aim, shoot. He didn’t have to kill his man, he only had to wound him. But he knew how devastating a wound could be.
He had been twelve that day, hunting alone for the first time, wanting to surprise Datt with venison for the smokehouse. But the doe he shot had only been wounded. His shot had broken its back, and it had struggled, bleating in fear and pain. Jonas’s eyes flew open, trying to banish the sight from his memory. He had put the doe out of her misery with his knife, but the memory repulsed him. His failure to kill with the first shot. His fear of the doe’s pain. The smell of the blood.
His hands were trembling. If they trembled when he fired his rifle, his aim wouldn’t be true.
Jonas pulled away from the line as he retched. He vomited behind a tree, then heard the first shots and pivoted back to his position.
George was on one knee, firing, reloading, and firing again. The soldier who had spoken to them lay on the ground, a bloom of dark red blood on the back of his uniform. Jonas’s feet wouldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He willed his arms to raise his rifle into position, but they didn’t move. He watched the scene unfold in front of him, the noise dea
fening. Then a man wearing a uniform of brown charged from the road directly toward George, a bayonet fixed to the end of his rifle. George was looking down the road, away from him, but the man fell back, his shoulder red with blood. Jonas looked at the smoking rifle in his hands. His training had taken over and he reloaded. A bugle sounded, and the fighting slowed.
Jonas rushed to the soldier he had shot. Pain twisted the man’s face and he looked at Jonas with pure fear.
“Don’t kill me, mister.”
Jonas dropped to his knees, laying his rifle next to him. A vision of the doe flashed through his mind again, but he pushed it away. “I’m not going to kill you. Our orders were to stop you, and I’ve done that.” He looked at the wound. “It isn’t too bad.”
“The bone ain’t gone? Those Minié balls will do that.”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
Jonas looked around. The battle had moved on down the road. This rebel was behind enemy lines.
“It looks like I’ll have to take you to our medical tent, but they’ll give you good care.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “That shows how little you know. I’m the enemy. Billy Yank will always come first to them.”
“I’ll look in on you myself.”
“Why?”
Jonas took a kerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around the man’s shoulder, hoping to stop the blood. “Because you’re a man, just like me.”
The man’s look of fear was replaced with hatred. “Don’t do me no favors. You and I are nothing alike. Nothing.”
“You don’t want me to help you?”
“Take your help somewheres else. I’d rather be dead than be beholden to the likes of you.” Jonas backed away from him as the man tried to struggle to his feet, but loss of blood was making him weak. “I’ll take my chances getting through the lines and back to my unit.”
“You won’t do that.” Jonas might be inexperienced, but he knew letting this man go back to his unit could mean the death of more troops and his own court-martial. “You’ll stay here until I can get you to the medical tent.”
