Northern Light

by Annette O'Hare

  Margaret placed her hands on her hips. “He’s not a guest, Mama! He’s a rotten, stinkin’ blue-bellied Yankee who doesn’t belong in our home!”

  “What on earth is wrong with you, Margaret?” Elizabeth approached Margaret, gesturing toward the front bedroom. “Don’t you even realize the most handsome man on the entire peninsula is right here in our house?”

  Margaret and Mama jerked their heads toward Elizabeth.

  A rosy glow crept onto Elizabeth’s cheeks as her hands covered her mouth. Her eyes widened.

  June came back into the kitchen.

  Margaret hardly noticed her entrance.

  A low groan came, and the sound of the newspaper being thrown to the floor came from the parlor before the front screen door creaked open and then slammed shut.

  Mama was the first to break the silence. “Elizabeth Fay, you shouldn’t be noticing men at your age. You’re not even old enough to court.”

  June placed her hands on her hips, matching her mother’s stance. “But, Mama…I heard Lizbeth say that Yankee’s the only available man on the peninsula over the age of ten, besides Old Man Goodman.” June cocked her head. “And if you ask me, Old Man Goodman is ugly as a mud fence and older than the dirt they built it with.”

  The tension instantly melted from Margaret’s shoulders. She put one hand over her mouth while the other steadied her belly to keep from laughing out loud at her little sister’s illuminating outburst.

  Mama turned her back so the girls couldn’t see her face. There was a slight bounce of Mama’s shoulders before she grabbed hold of the counter and picked up a potholder to fan herself.

  The look of horror on Elizabeth’s face revealed how June’s statement affected her.

  Mama seemed to be searching for the right words to say.

  Tears began to flow down Elizabeth’s cheeks. She ran from the kitchen. A few seconds later, the bedroom door slammed.

  Mama’s eyes were dancing with laughter.

  Margaret began to laugh and fell into Mama’s arms. Margaret pulled her baby sister into their embrace and hugged her tightly.

  June had a bewildered look on her face. She looked up at Mama and Margaret and shrugged her shoulders. “Mama, sissy, why did Lizbeth run off…and what in the world are y’all laughing at anyway?”

  ~*~

  Margaret sat on the top stair in front of the house. A graceful roseate spoonbill swooped down, diving into the drainage pond that ran along the property line. A cool coastal breeze danced through acres of purple lovegrass. Gusts of wind rushed through the wheatgrass like waves crashing on the beach.

  Elizabeth was still crying in the bedroom.

  Her parents had put their family in danger by harboring the Union sailor in their home. Margaret slammed her fist against the wooden stair rail and grabbed her hand, wincing in pain. Why am I acting like this? I’ve never had a temper. That stranger has me all tied up in knots! She rubbed the side of her hand, feeling remorseful over her outburst. She should go to her sister and comfort her, but she was so upset with everyone in her family that Elizabeth would have to cry it out.

  Her Jeffrey had always been clean-cut and clean-shaven. His hair would never have behaved like Thomas’s—so wavy and dark…framing his handsome…

  She buried her face in her hands and tried to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. How could her sister possibly think that Yankee was handsome? Thomas’s long hair was overdue for a trim. He looked like a vagabond in his tattered uniform with unkempt facial hair, and those eyes…those steel-blue eyes.

  Margaret grasped her head in her hands. What’s wrong with me? Do I so desperately miss the love of a man that I would consider the likes of that Yankee? “Oh, Lord, why did you have to take my Jeffrey away from me and only months before we were to marry?” She didn’t bother wiping the tears away. She’d lost the love of her life, her home, and everything that was familiar. The war took nothing and no one into consideration. Young, old, man, woman, or beast, everyone suffered equally. Even the trip from Louisiana was a grueling ordeal that left its mark on the whole family—the checkpoints, the beggars, the gunfire, and the bodies…so many bodies of dead soldier boys.

  And Mama, her belly about to burst with the twins. Margaret thought it cruel and merciless for God to make Mama carry a dead baby in her womb all the way across Louisiana. But it did seem the standard of the day they lived in. There was no fairness anymore—not for anyone.

  She and her younger sisters had seen more death and unrighteous acts than young women should ever be exposed to. The smell coming from nearby Fort Greene wasn’t only human waste, as she’d thought when she’d accompanied Mama to the fort to treat the injured following a raid. The smell was an accumulation of rotting septic wounds and all stages of death and dying that lingered amongst the prisoners. The putrid odor would live on in her mind forever.

  Vermin and disease inhabited the place. Perhaps it was a good thing they didn’t take Thomas there. A sickening feeling roiled in her stomach for even thinking it. She’d heard Papa say a soldier didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hades of surviving Fort Greene, with the spread of dysentery and all, especially not a wounded soldier.

  Why did there even have to be a war? Nothing was worth the loss of life and heartache the South had seen. Papa said the war started because of northern states wielding their powerful influence over the South. They took away the southern states’ rights, including the owning of slaves to do all the hard work. There couldn’t have been more than five people on the whole peninsula who owned slaves. Not counting the ones the Confederates used at the fort, of course. But her family had never owned any slaves and still they had to suffer the consequences of the war.

  She’d never heard about local slaves being abused. But then again, why would anyone brag about such a thing? Margaret had met the Stoltzes’ servant girl, Necie, a time or two. Was there a possibility Necie was unhappy? Had she been abused? Truthfully, Margaret had never thought about it. A sinking feeling overcame her heart at the realization that she’d never even cared.

  A strong gust of wind blew into her face; the breeze whipped her hair. Slaves, war, states’ rights—no young woman should have to think of such things. She should be taking care of her husband and awaiting the birth of their first child. But it wasn’t meant to be.

  Her mind drifted to the man convalescing in her family’s guest bedroom. She banged her fists to her forehead to remove the thought. It was impossible though, as his long dark hair and unshaven chin seemed etched in her mind. “God, why did You have to send a Yankee? You know I need a man to love, and You send me a Yankee.” She sobbed aloud. “And did You have to send the most handsome Yankee I’ve ever seen, Lord?”

  “Margaret!” Mama called.

  “Yes, ma’am!” she hollered back, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks with her apron. “I’m out front.”

  “Come clean up the mess you made in the kitchen, young lady! I can’t believe you would waste so much good flour having your little tantrum. You know there’s a good chance we won’t get any more!”

  Margaret brushed away sand that had collected on her skirt. She vowed never to think about Thomas Murphy in that way again.

  The only problem…she had serious doubts she was strong enough to do it. “Coming, Mama!”

  6

  Thomas set the food tray on the dresser next to the bed. He would have taken the dishes to the kitchen, but Mrs. Logan refused to allow him to do anything. Even after two weeks of recovery, she insisted on him being waited on, much to the chagrin of all but one of the female children in the family.

  Thomas had learned much about the close-knit family. The baby boy, Jeremiah, was everyone’s pride and joy with his raven-colored curls and apple-red cheeks. He would probably be forever treated like a prince. The youngest girl, June, was the funny one. He would never forget their first real conversation without adult supervision.

  “Mr. Murphy,” June had said. “My big sister Margaret keeps callin’ yo
u a blue-bellied Yankee.” She twirled a curl of the bright red hair she’d inherited from her mama. “Well, I was just wonderin’ whether or not you really do have a blue belly.” Her inquisitive innocence was refreshing.

  Thomas chuckled. Elizabeth was a mystery to him. He knew the young thing harbored feelings that he’d politely rejected so as not to hurt the poor girl. She was barely in her teens.

  The last time they’d spoken was particularly strange.

  “Mr. Murphy.” Elizabeth came into the bedroom. She was hiding something and shut the door. She uncovered a plate of biscuits and a small pot of honey. “Here you go.” She held the plate out to Thomas. “Mama was saving these for tomorrow, so don’t tell anyone I gave them to you. It will be our little secret.”

  Thomas couldn’t accept the gift. “Elizabeth, I don’t think ye should take things without asking permission.”

  She scowled and continued holding the plate out to him. “But I took them for you!”

  Thomas didn’t know what to do.

  After an awkward silence, Elizabeth slammed the plate onto the chest of drawers and stormed out of the room. There had been other disturbing conversations and situations. It seemed as though she wanted him to feel sorry for her in order to win his affections.

  Margaret was the apple of his eye. The most beautiful thing he’d seen since leaving his homeland of Ireland. He couldn’t stop thinking of the girl with the coal-colored hair, skin as smooth as fresh-churned butter, and those violet eyes. But she seemed to hate everything about him. He was the enemy.

  The Logan parents, however, went out of their way to make him feel welcome.

  Thomas patted his belly. He’d eaten more food since his injury than his whole time in the Navy. Aye, but yer getting fat, Thomas Murphy. He’d decided to get up and move around over the next few days in order to build up his strength. He was determined to somehow work for these fine people—to repay their kindness.

  A tapping came at the door.

  “Yes, come in.”

  Jebediah Logan entered the room, a smoldering pipe in his hand. He took a long draw from the beautifully carved wooden instrument before speaking. “Good afternoon, Mr. Murphy.” Jebediah pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “And a good afternoon to ye, Mr. Logan. How are things going with the cotton pulling?”

  Jebediah released the smoke he’d inhaled, the slow stream escaping from his mouth. Mr. Logan did everything slow and easy. “Oh, we’re just about done with the pulling. Now we gotta get it ready to take over to the docks for shipping. I’ve got Elizabeth and Margaret to help me with that though. Mostly, I’ve been working on the garden. About time to put out the winter vegetables.” Mr. Logan wiped a bit of ash from his pant leg. “Well, son, you’re looking a might better than when we first brought you here in the donkey cart. Are you feeling any stronger?”

  “Aye.” Thomas lifted his arm and made a muscle. “A wee bit every day.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Jebediah Logan was a man of few words.

  It was up to Thomas to fill the void. “Mr. Logan, ye mind me asking a question on…a personal level?” Thomas averted his eyes and rubbed his leg.

  “I suppose you’re welcome to ask. But I’m not agreeing to answer until I hear what you have to say.” Jebediah crossed his arms.

  “Of course, sir. Y’see, I’ve been wondering since ye brought me here why yer not fighting with the Rebels.”

  “Oh, that…of course.” Mr. Logan set his pipe on the tray and rolled up the right sleeve of his pale blue cotton shirt. “There was an accident at the lighthouse I manned down in South Louisiana.”

  “Oh my, sir, what on earth happened to yer arm?” Thomas cringed.

  “There was a strong, gale-force wind blowing that day, and I was having a hard time keeping the light lit. Anyway, I needed to fetch more oil, so I started down the stairs, which happened to be slick with seawater. Well, there weren’t any handrails and my legs went out from under me. Just about that time, I heard a gust of wind come up, so I grabbed hold of the stair rung with all my might.” Mr. Logan picked up his pipe and pointed it at Thomas. “It was either that or be thrown down the stairs and not be here today to tell about it.”

  Thomas waited for the man to go on.

  “The wind that night was so strong it managed to pick my whole body up and flop it around like a sheet hung out to dry. My arm was pinned, and I couldn’t let go. When the wind finally settled, I released my arm and crawled the rest of the way down the stairs. I felt the pain and then saw that the skin on my arm was shredded and the bones were broken to pieces.” Mr. Logan rolled his elbow all the way around to the inside of his arm. “Caroline patched me up as best she could, but it’s never been the same. It didn’t help matters that I couldn’t give my arm any time to heal. A lighthouse keeper has to keep things working or the results could be deadly.”

  “I can understand that, sir. So ye mustn’t be very good with a gun then.”

  “No…I can shoot with my left but probably couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

  The two men laughed.

  Mr. Logan rolled down his sleeve and buttoned it. “So, Mr. Murphy, Caroline tells me you’re from Ireland.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right. My people come from County Cork, the southernmost part of Ireland. It’s a beautiful place, to be sure.”

  “Um-hmm.” Mr. Logan put the pipe between his teeth, lit a match, and put it to the tobacco. He drew in four quick, hard puffs until smoke began to rise from the bowl. “So what brought you to America…fame, riches?”

  “Aye, not so much fame as riches, I suppose. It was An Gorta Mór that brought us here. Ye know about the Great Hunger, don’t ye?”

  “I read about the potato famine in the papers. It was a terrible thing.” A long, thick stream of smoke floated from his mouth.

  “Aye, a most terrible thing, to be sure.” Thomas bowed his head at the painful memory.

  “Do you still have family back home, Mr. Murphy?”

  “Call me Thomas, if ye please, sir. And no, I came here with my father and two brothers.”

  “All right then, Thomas, what about your mama—she didn’t come to America with your family?”

  “No, sir, she sacrificed her life saving her children from starvation. She wasn’t the first to go though. My baby sister, Elizabeth, passed before Mam. She was a precious little thing with her curly auburn hair—it was the fever that took her from us.” Thomas steeled himself as tears threatened in a wave of grief.

  Mr. Logan lowered his pipe. “I’m sorry to hear that. Sounds as if you’ve had about as tough a life as any.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Logan. I’ve heard stories since I joined the Navy that make mine seem weak. Families from both sides have lost all their sons to the war.”

  “What about your brothers—did they join the Navy with you?” Mr. Logan leaned back in his chair.

  “Aye, my brother Jonathan joined with me, but the youngest, Michael, volunteered to work at DeCamp General Hospital on David’s Island in New York so he’d be close to my pap in the town of Yonkers. Jonathan was put on a gunboat, and I was assigned to a blockade ship.” Thomas looked toward the window and dragged his fingers through his thick, overgrown hair. He released a long breath. “Alas, I haven’t been in contact with any of them for a ver’ long time. I miss them somethin’ awful.”

  Mr. Logan rubbed his jaw, gazing out the window, and then turned back to Thomas “So, what are your views on the war?”

  The hair bristled at the back of Thomas’s neck as an uncomfortable tightness crept up his spine. He wouldn’t lie about how he felt. “Well, Mr. Logan, I think this war is a terrible thing. I see no good in pitting brother against brother because the North and South cannot come to an agreement. But I also think slavery is a horrible institution, and if it takes war to put an end to it…then so be it.” Thomas prepared himself to be thrown out of the house. But instead of the rage he expected, Mr. Logan took a puff from hi
s pipe and grinned—which somehow frightened him even more.

  “Coming from Ireland, you must know what it’s like to be a slave then.”

  “What?”

  “I understand the Irish are the barely paid slaves of the North. Am I correct?”

  “Well, I suppose ye could say that.” Thomas scratched his head. “I can attest to the fact that it were the Irish who dug the canals, and it were the Irish who laid the railroads up north, and for what…a penny and a pat on the back. That’s what! And me people are no more welcome to associate with the hoity-toity New Yorkers than the Negro is with his owner.” Thomas braced his side. The outburst caused a sudden ache to arise. How did he do that? I was quite prepared to defend the North and the man causes me to curse the very town I come from.

  Mr. Logan raised a single eyebrow and his mouth curled up in satisfaction. “Sorry, Mr. Murphy, didn’t mean to rile you so. Do you want to know my opinion?” He held the bowl of his pipe and pointed at Thomas with the mouthpiece. “This war did not start out to be about slavery as you may believe. Of course, there are plantation owners willing to send their sons to their death to keep their slaves. But did you know that the tyrannous North refuses to recognize the rights of the South?” Mr. Logan’s voice got higher and louder with each word. “Did you know the South is only allowed to sell its cotton and raw materials to northern factories? We can’t sell out of the country either. And worse yet, the North has the backing of Congress, who levies the taxes so high on their finished products that we can’t even afford them down here. And that, my friend, is why the South made the decision to secede from the Union.”

  Thomas squirmed a bit in the bed. Anything he said could be taken the wrong way, and he in no way wanted to offend the man who was feeding him. He changed the subject. “So, Mr. Logan, what are ye planning to plant in yer garden?”

  Mr. Logan relaxed back in his chair and took a draw from his pipe. “I’ve got a good batch of seeds saved up from last year’s crop. We’ll be putting out turnips, lettuce, Brussels sprouts, collards, spinach.” A grin rose on the man’s face. “And here’s one you’ll like…Irish potatoes!”