A dead Union soldier lay on the dirt just ahead. Charles glanced around. No one paid attention to him. A thought blossomed. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he wrenched off his Confederate jacket with its officer markings and tossed it aside. His vision swam. He took a long breath to clear his head and pulled the enlisted Union jacket off the heavy corpse and tugged it on. Nausea washed over him as he thrust his right arm through the sleeve.
His pants. He looked down. They were so dirty the enemy might not notice they were the wrong color.
“Over there! I sees one!” A woman’s voice reached his ears but sounded as if it were underwater. He fell back into the dirt and let his tired eyes drift closed.
Hands pulled at him. “Help me get him up. We got to get him inside and stop that bleedin’ before….” Her voice drifted away like dandelion tufts on a summer breeze. Peace came with the darkness. Why should he struggle to stay awake for the screams of death? He felt himself drifting, the warm void calling him to let go of the pain and find rest. The shouts around him grew farther away until only the sound of his thudding heart remained. The light glowing outside his closed eyes grew faint.
And then there was only darkness.
Ironwood
October 5, 1862
“I got somethin’ I need to tell you.”
Lydia knew that already. It hadn’t been hard to tell Ruth had something on her mind the whole evening. Candlelight flickered off the walls and danced across the final pages of the story she’d written for Ruth.
“The story is finished for now, I suppose. Though that isn’t the path your thoughts lie on, is it?”
Ruth frowned at her. Lydia placed the cork in the ink jar and rose from her spot at the desk. How late into the night they’d sat here she had no idea. Time had grown monotonous, dragging slowly into fall. These times with Ruth, when they could pretend the world outside didn’t exist, were the only things keeping her from losing her sanity. Or what was left of it.
She glanced at Ruth under her lashes. Couldn’t they just keep pretending?
“There is more to the story, Ruth. More you will want to pass on to your children. How will it all end?”
Ruth glanced away. “I don’t know what you mean. None of us knows what each day’s gonna bring.”
“And yet, we know what we plan, don’t we?”
“I guess so.”
“So what is it you plan? Where do you see yourself going from here?”
“Ain’t no point planning. Life decides for you.”
Bitterness Lydia had not seen from Ruth tinged her words. Something was wrong. “What happened?”
Ruth smoothed her skirt and looked at Lydia for a long moment. Lydia forced herself to keep a passive face and wait. She would not ask again. Ruth would only answer when she felt ready.
“Some of the people’s done run.”
The statement hung heavy in the air between them, a living thing of its own that could be felt, if not seen. Lydia chewed her lip.
“How many?”
“About twenty, maybe more.”
Lydia nodded. “When?”
“Last night.”
Lydia crossed the floor and looked out the window as if she could find answers in the darkness beyond it. “Impossible. Someone would have told me.”
“Like who?”
Lydia whirled around to face her. “Like one of the foremen! Tommy!” She threw her hands in the air. “Someone would have reported to me.”
Ruth looked at the floor.
“You knew.”
Ruth didn’t respond.
“You knew, and you didn’t tell me.” Her heart clenched. How had she been so blind? Why had she assumed anything different?
“I’m tellin’ you now.”
She glared at the woman she wondered if she even knew at all. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“It was supposed to be a secret. Even now, the others cover it as best they can. You was never supposed to know at all.” Ruth’s voice was soft, laced with something Lydia couldn’t quite determine. Resignation? Guilt?
“I hope they find what they seek.” She turned back to the window but could feel Ruth’s eyes boring into her back.
“You mean that?”
Lydia sighed. “What should we expect when we buy and sell people like they are nothing more than animals? Why should I be surprised some of them want to see what life they can make for themselves?”
“I told ’em not to go.”
Lydia squeezed her eyes tight to trap the unexpected tears that sprang in them. “I thank you.”
Ruth rose from her seat and placed a hand on Lydia’s elbow. “I’m not leavin’.”
“I’m not demanding you stay.”
“Even more reason why I won’t go.”
Lydia drew a long breath, annoyed at how ragged it sounded. She straightened her shoulders. “I will try to do right by the people of Ironwood.”
Ruth nodded. “That I believe, sure ’nough.”
“I am the lady of the house. And for the first time, I know what that means.”
Ruth stared at her but didn’t respond.
“It’s late. You should probably go.”
Ruth left her to find her own bed, and Lydia snatched at sleep for a few hours. She rose before the sun began to paint the sky the next morning. Today, she would speak to her people. Today, she would be their lady.
She dressed quickly, forgoing her corset, hoops, and even her stockings, and twisted her hair into a simple bun at the nape of her neck. She reached for a bonnet, but then tossed it away.
She found Tommy outside the barn exactly where she expected him to be. He turned to her approach with raised brows.
“Tommy. You will have the foremen gather every person on this plantation and bring them to me. Gather them all. I want every man, woman and child that lives or works on Harper lands in the front of the house within the hour.”
Tommy frowned. “But, ma’am they’s—”
“I do not care. I do not care what they are occupied with or what is the proper way of doing things. I will speak to my people. Bring them to me.”
He inclined his head. “As you wish, ma’am. I’ll see that it’s done.”
She turned on her heel and crossed the garden to the kitchen. A soft voice drifted through the cracked door, so soulful she paused to let the haunting melody wash over her.
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole
There’s power enough in heaven,
To cure a sin-sick soul.
Lydia waited outside of the door and listened to Betsy. She’d never heard the woman sing before. Such a clear, beautiful voice, worthy of any stage. The melody did something to her, awakened a response and tugged at her emotions.
Sometimes I feel discouraged,
And think my work’s in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again.
Lydia pushed open the door and stared at the woman rolling dough with flour all over her cheeks and a red rag tied around her head, suddenly seeing her for the first time.
“You have a beautiful voice.”
Betsy squealed and dropped the rolling pin, her hand flying to her heart. “Oh my Lord. You ’bout scared me plain ta death.”
“I’m sorry.”
Betsy straightened herself and looked at Lydia with eyes too wise and full of compassion. She nodded to a pan of biscuits sitting on the stove. “I got some honey, too, if you want to pour it on ’em.”
Feeling like a child obeying her grandmother, Lydia entered into the warm glow of the kitchen and plucked a golden biscuit from the pan. The honey was already on the table when she turned around. Forgetting herself, she settled down on the bench and drizzled a line of amber sweetness across her breakfast, letting the flavor erupt on her tongue and deliver a sense of simple satisfaction.
“You make the best biscuits,” Lydia said, still chewing her bite in a manner most unbecoming.
<
br /> “We all got our parts, now, don’t we? Mine’s biscuits.” She grinned. “And chicken.”
Lydia studied her. “That’s the way it is, isn’t it? We are born into our place, and nothing we can do or dream changes that. We all have our parts to play.”
Betsy wiped her hands on her apron and came to sit across from Lydia as if they were old friends. “Maybe. But the way I see it, life is like the whistle walk.”
Lydia frowned. “The path from the kitchen to the house? How is that life?”
Betsy raised her eyebrows. “You ever watch a kid takin’ the food to the big house before?”
Had she? Had she ever taken the time to notice the people that carried her food? “No. I don’t suppose so.”
“You know what happens, though, right?”
“Of course. They carry the tray from the kitchen to the house whistling, because you can’t eat and whistle at the same time.”
“Uh huh. You think the boy, or the young woman, carrying that pie wants to whistle?”
“I don’t know.” She squirmed in her seat and glanced at the door.
“Well, whistling’s like singing, don’t you think? We do it ’cause we’re happy, ’cause it brings joy to a weary soul.”
Lydia stared at her, unsure how to respond.
“But them, they whistle ’cause it’s what’s expected, not because it’s what they feel. They put one foot in front of the other down the path they are told to walk. Never once do they step off it. And never once do they stick their finger in the pie.”
The cook’s words struck an eerie cord and hung in the room like tendrils of fog on a ghostly night.
Betsy shook herself as if coming out of some kind of dream. She stood up and went back to her dough. “I’m almost finished with the breakfast, ma’am, if you’d like me to send it on in.”
Lydia rose from her seat and brushed her skirts. She studied the woman. Was this the same woman who made the meals and bandaged wounds with tender hands, or was she someone else entirely? An unconventional messenger with a profound truth meant to stab deep into guarded hearts who never anticipated her thrust?
“I’ve called the people of Ironwood together. I’ll expect you in front of the house within the hour.”
Betsy bent over her work, back to the same woman Lydia expected to see and, yet at the same time, forever different.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lydia strode across the kitchen and pulled open the door, coming face to face with Ruth and nearly stepping into her.
“Oh!” Ruth stumbled back, almost tripping on the big skirts of the blue dress Lydia remembered wearing a lifetime ago when she was but an awkward girl at Cedarwycke. Lydia nodded to her and stepped past.
“Wait! What’s goin’ on?” Ruth called after her.
Lydia looked over her shoulder. “I’m gathering the people.”
Ruth’s brows pulled together. “Why?”
She drew a long breath and looked back at the house, speaking to it more than to the woman behind her.
“Because I’m about to stick my finger in the pie.”
Ruth watched Miss Lydia walk to the house with a determined step and straight back. She turned to Betsy, who stood in the kitchen doorway with a slight smile and a glimmer in her eyes.
“What’s goin’ on?”
Betsy’s smile widened. “I think she done decided it was time to stop whistlin’.”
Had everyone lost their minds? Ruth pinched the bridge of her nose. She didn’t have time for this foolishness. “Miss Lydia done called all the people together. You know anything ’bout that?”
Betsy raised her eyebrows. “You don’t? Seems you always know what all’s going on ’round here.”
Ruth gave a humph and turned on her heel. Seemed no one cared about being clear this morning. People from the fields trickled in, and a good fifteen or so walked with her around to the front of the house.
They gathered in the yard, none speaking. Women pulled shawls they should need for October, but didn’t in this unnatural heat, tighter around them. Men stuffed their fingers into their pockets. Ruth watched as more came from the back of the house until the entire yard bloomed with a field of ebony faces. Young and old, they stood quietly together and faced the big house with eyes filled with worry.
Ruth shifted on her feet. She hadn’t been asked to stand with Miss Lydia. Ruth hadn’t even been told her plans. That, more than anything, made her nervous. That woman had proved she could do strange things. Not knowing what to expect from a woman who was the soul of contradiction caused her stomach to fill with an uncomfortable squirming feeling.
The sun crested the roof of the house, pouring bright light across the peaks and cascading down the massive front columns. The balcony doors swung open, and the people shielded their eyes to look at the woman stepping onto the balcony.
Miss Lydia stepped up to the rail and surveyed the people in front of her, her face smooth with a quiet determination. Gone was the uncertainty and even the mask of indifference. Here instead stood a woman of confidence, no longer a lady of leisure.
Something else entirely. Something…more like the rest of them, perhaps.
Lydia reached up behind her head and pulled a pin free, her long hair tumbling around her shoulders. Ruth’s heart hammered in her chest. A proper white woman did not wear her hair down in public. The stress had been too much. Lydia had lost her mind.
Ruth looked at the people around her. They were all captivated by the sight in front of them, the sun bathing their upturned faces in a warm glow of clean light.
“People of Ironwood!”
Ruth looked back up at Lydia, who placed her hands on the rail of the balcony and looked down on them, her clear voice carrying to every ear. The wind picked up and tugged at Lydia’s unbound hair, pulling it back from her face – a face that suddenly came alive.
“Today we make a new path. Today is a new beginning for each of us.”
The people shifted, a current of anticipation stirring them from the passion ringing out in her voice.
“Ironwood is more than land and fields, homes, and barns. It is more than the cotton that grows in its soil and the trees that shade its grounds. Ironwood is more than you. It is more than me. Ironwood is not just another plantation fueled by the toil and sweat of bound people with no hope!”
The people shifted on their feet, their eyes darting back and forth between each other and the wild eyes of the woman above them. What did she mean to do? What would Mr. Harper think to see her up there? It was too much for her. This war, him leaving. Ruth’s heart constricted.
Lord, help her. She’s done come undone.
“We are Ironwood. Ironwood breathes! Feel her life! She lives because we work together, each of us with a part. It is only by working together that we will survive. You all know change is coming. You can feel it on the air the same as I can. A mighty wind blows toward Ironwood, seeking to tear us apart.”
The people began nodding. They knew—probably better.
“Our culture has told us the path we must walk. It has told us to accept our place and smile while doing it. No more! I am Lady of Ironwood. I shall say how life will be here. Not them. It is I who will care for her people. I will see that justice is done and that each and every soul here knows that they are worth more than the sweat of their brows! Created by God. Loved, honored, and valued. That is my Ironwood!”
Someone cried out from the back. Suddenly other voices joined them. Energy shot through the crowd, and they strained forward, some even lifting their hands to Lydia as if they could draw some of her passion down.
“Will you stand with me? Will you stay and guard this Ironwood? The Ironwood of my heart? Stay, and I give you the promise of fair wage. The pride of knowing the toil of your hands puts food in your children’s bellies.”
The people began to mummer louder, cheers erupting sporadically throughout their numbers. More than a hundred faces alight with hope. Ruth shuddered and swallowed in th
e flood of emotions that swirled around her. Hope, excitement, anxiety.
“I give you a choice! Leave if you must. Leave as others already have. I will not stop you. But know that new life begins today, and it begins here! You will not have to search for it in the North. You will not have to fight for footing in a strange new land. Ironwood is the core of change. She is what binds us together. She is our rebirth, and in her will we claim our freedom!”
The crowd erupted. Hands flew into the air. Women cried out. Men shouted. Ruth’s breath caught and tears swam in her eyes. She’d glimpsed something more beneath the surface. She’d known this woman was different from the moment she’d first seen the fire in her eyes that day on the streets of Oakville. It had been hidden under a thick layer of propriety and tradition, nearly smothered beneath the pressure to be who she thought she must be.
But not today.
Ruth raised her hand and shouted with the others. Today freedom broke open the guarded woman who stood above them, and that freedom poured over the faces below.
Lydia looked intently at them. “Will you stay? Will you stay with me and honor Ironwood?”
The people shouted, their voices filling the air with a jubilant cry.
She nodded and waited for their cheers to quiet. Her gaze roamed over them, her eyes pausing and resting on Ruth.
“It will not be easy. We will always fight against the current. They will not understand. They never understand.”
Ruth nodded. Lydia’s gaze remained locked on hers.
The people pressed in closer. Lydia swung her focus to the outer edges of the crowd where Ruth knew the white foremen stood. She could not even imagine what they thought of this. Lydia squared her shoulders, seeming much bigger and commanding more respect than her small frame should have been able to hold.
“Foremen! I will need you. I will need you to be men of honor. Men who lead with compassion and strength. Not men who oppress, nor men who allow chaos. But men who can lead a dignified people with respect.”
More murmurs from the crowd. Ruth turned to see the scattering of a dozen or so white men. A few seemed intrigued, some angry, but holding their tongues. None of them spoke. Ruth feared an eruption of rage. Lydia waited. Silence fell heavy on the people.
The Whistle Walk: A Civil War Novel (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 1) Page 23
