Widow of Gettysburg (Heroines Behind the Lines)

by Jocelyn Green

  She turned me away on the doorstep. Heartbroken, and blaming myself for the disintegration of my family, I went to the local saloon and drank more moonshine than I could even look at, until I was right where I wanted to be. Passed out, in sweet oblivion to the miserable reality I created. But when I woke up in a puddle of drool, someone shoved a paper under my nose, pointed to my name and claimed I had enlisted in the Confederate army. It wasn’t my signature, Liberty. I couldn’t even hold a pen in that state. But they knew me, and they drafted me to fill their ranks. Next thing I knew, they threw some lice-infested uniform and a revolver at me.

  I wouldn’t touch it. They picked it up by the barrel and struck me with the handle. Still I refused. I would never, I will never, handle a weapon again. This angered the men who signed me up not a little. They reminded me that if I tried to escape my duty, I’d be a deserter, and would be summarily shot.

  What was I to do? They could force me to walk with them, but they could not force me to fight. They considered me a waste of space until an officer arranged for me to be a scout for them. Instead of fighting, I could look ahead of them, gather information and report it.

  That’s what I was doing on June 26. Would to God I had a better story to bring you, but you deserve to know it. I want nothing more in this world than to get beyond this battle, let alone the entire war. I rue my part in it.

  I pray God keeps you safe, and gives you peace and happiness. You deserve more than the trials that have come to you.

  It was signed, Silas Ford.

  Liberty frowned. Silas Ford. Silas Ford. She looked at him, eyes wide. “Silas Ford, man of the Lord…?” She could not bring herself to say the rest, but it screamed in her mind. Took slaves to bed and shot Pa dead!

  Silas shrugged. “You never can tell.” His smile fell flat.

  “But … the rest of the rhyme. Is it all true?” Did you take slaves to your bed?

  “I have told you the truth, Liberty. I despised my father for what he did to the slaves. Killed him over it! How could you ask whether I abuse the slaves as well? That’s not who I am. I want to protect the innocent, not exploit them.”

  His words rang true. Hadn’t he protected Liberty from her intruders? When she was a child, hadn’t he found other homes for her kittens instead of following Aunt Helen’s instructions to drown them? Hadn’t he lost his leg while trying to find help for wounded soldiers? He was more like a shepherd than a wolf.

  Before she realized what she was doing, Liberty laid her hand on his good leg. Instantly, inexplicably, his eyes hardened. He flung her hand away.

  “I will not have your pity.”

  She jerked back, as though struck. “If you keep staring at what you’ve lost, you’ll never get over it.” She tried to sound clinical, but her hand still tingled from the warmth of his body under her hand. He thought she felt pity for him? She would have called it something else. Whatever it was, anger now eclipsed it.

  “Pity! Look, Silas.” She held up her hands, blistered palms facing him, fingers splayed, before plunging them back on her apron. “Do you know how I spent yesterday? Carrying wounded men up from a basement flooded with rainwater and excrement up sixty-five stairs to the fourth floor. One man nearly drowned before we got to him. He had an arm. One arm. He was a torso, with an arm, and in fairly good spirits! If he didn’t need my pity, I won’t be giving it to you either!”

  Rows of prostrate forms grumbled from beneath their rubber blankets, and she remembered they were not alone. She cut her voice low. “Dr. Stephens killed his own son with an overdose of chloroform in an effort to keep the pain away during the amputation he was about to perform. On his own son. Now the doctor is taking opium that should be used on patients because it numbs his pain. I pity him. Twenty men survived the battle, survived amputation, only to drown in two feet of water in a different field hospital! I pity them and the souls who thought they had done them some good by carefully laying them on the ground!”

  Though quiet, her voice was sharp, lancing the boil of emotion she had previously kept contained. “We have all lost something, Silas. You know what I have lost. There are barrels of supplies from the Sanitary and Christian Commissions out there, given by people who have suffered, too. Some have lost both husband and sons. Truly, I doubt not that every home in this country has been touched by loss of some kind.”

  Liberty barely took a breath as the words spilled out of her. “For a little while, I pitied myself. But then I realized, it’s only a destroyed farm, it’s only my life, I will make a new one later. Other people have it worse than me, and in truth, some even have it worse than you. So you lost a leg.” She leaned in. “Look around, Silas. How many men do you see here with all four limbs? How many are in the ground, or rotting on top of it, who would trade places with you if they could?”

  Liberty covered her mouth, shocked as she realized that such horror had become ordinary. This is not normal! her former self whispered in her mind. It is normal now. Undeniable truth. Her face was wet with tears.

  Silas did not know what to expect from Liberty when she finished reading his letter. But he did not expect this. She stood, practically shaking with emotion in front of him. Black curls, teased free by the wind flowing through the decomposing barn, bobbed beside her flushed face. Sapphire eyes sparkling, her jaw was set, her fists clenched. He could barely believe this strong woman had grown from the orphan girl he had once pitied himself.

  “I’ve said too much,” she said quietly, crumpling in her hands the letter she had come with. “I did not intend to make an enemy of you just now.”

  “Then were we not enemies already, you from North, me from the South?”

  Wiping her cheeks, she shook her head. “The lines are not so clearly drawn as they once were. At least, not for me.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as she surveyed the patients in the barn. “I hate this war.” She lowered herself to sit on her heels in the straw beside him, the fight in her eyes now dwindling.

  A long moment passed before either of them spoke again.

  “Cease fire?” Silas offered her his hand, and she took it, the blisters on her palm chafing his heart. A lump shifted in his throat as she smiled through her tears.

  “Would you believe I once told myself you were my big brother?” She clasped her hands back in her lap. “Some people have imaginary friends—I tried to have an imaginary family.”

  Silas drew a deep breath. This was good, safe territory. A big brother. A little sister. Completely innocent. Make sure it stays that way. “Another case of mistaken identity. It seems to be a trend.” He chuckled. “Come now. I’ve told you who I really am. It’s only fair you tell me who you thought I was.” He nodded at the letter in her lap.

  “No one special.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her, and her face colored.

  “That’s not what I meant.” Liberty pressed her lips into a line before telling the very short tale of Jonathan Welch.

  “May I see the letter? The one you thought I wrote?”

  She hesitated, but then shrugged and gave it to him. “He means nothing to me, understand. I never kept one of his letters.”

  Until this one, Silas thought, and scanned the lines. It was a typical war-inspired love letter, full of flowery sentiments, and far too bold for his taste. Silas’s face warmed in embarrassment. “You thought I wrote this?” He glanced at her.

  “You’re the one who said your name was Johnny.” She twisted her apron strings around her fingers.

  Silas read on. Good heavens, it was a proposal! And a sappy one at that. Whoever this man was clearly didn’t know what real love was. “How could he write this? It’s ridiculous. I would never say this to you.” He looked up at her, amused by the drivel on the page.

  Liberty snatched the letter from him. “I realize you’re not the one who proposed, but you don’t have to be unkind about it. I wasn’t pining for a suitor then, and I’m certainly not now.”

  “I meant no disrespect to you. He is
the fool—”

  “For wanting to marry me? Quite.”

  “That is not at all what I meant.”

  But she pushed herself up and turned toward the doorway.

  It was not how he wanted her to leave. Silas threw the sheet off his legs and struggled to stand, swinging his left leg under him and kneeling on it. “Don’t go yet!”

  “What are you doing? Sit down! You’re not ready for this kind of strain!” Her eyes flashed with alarm. He gripped her arms and pulled himself up, aware that she would not let go of him as long as he remained standing.

  “You know that’s not fair, walking out when we’re talking, when I can’t follow you.” His head spun, but whether it was from the fire raging in his injured leg, from standing, or from Liberty’s nearness, he didn’t know. Or care. He would stand as long as he could to keep her close.

  “Fair?” She squeezed his upper arms tighter. “What an irrelevant word in a time of war.”

  “I have no quarrel with you.” He pulled her in closer. “I meant only that that Welch fellow was going about his proposal all wrong.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. He wrote of needing you to make him happy. That he could not live without you. Tell me you were not flattered by such selfishness.”

  She blinked, and he could tell she did not understand. “But how is that selfish?”

  How could Liberty, who had once been married, know so little of true love? “You really do need a big brother, don’t you?” A smile played on his lips. “Welch wants you to make him happy. But he says nothing of making you happy. If a husband loves his wife the way Christ loves the church—as he should do—he will seek to serve her with his life. Die for her, if necessary. And he would do it without complaint. A husband places the utmost importance on his wife’s welfare and fulfillment, rather than on his own happiness.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I have seen men willing to live and die for country, even for a symbol of the country, but for a woman? Show me a man who thinks this way.”

  Silas held her in his gaze, until she looked away. “Welch certainly didn’t,” he said gently. “That’s why I said I would never write such things to you. If I was proposing to a woman, I would have told her that I loved her not for how happy she could make me, but for who she is. That I would be privileged to spend my life caring for her, placing her interests and happiness above my own. If she would give me her hand in marriage, I would devote myself to proving worthy of the honor.”

  Silas teetered on his left leg while the pain from his right launched fiery darts through his body.

  “You’ll hurt yourself, Silas.” Awkwardly, he let her help him back down to the floor, but he didn’t let go of her. “It’s too much pressure on the seam. You may have already pulled the flesh apart from putting your entire weight on it.”

  Silas sighed. “But do you understand me now? Welch didn’t deserve you.”

  Slowly, Liberty released a long breath and nodded. “Thank you.” She feathered his back with her fingertips, grazing ridges of scar tissue through his cotton tunic. Her eyes locked with his as her hand froze. Then with a single finger, she tenderly traced the path of the whip down his back, sending shivers down his spine. His muscles flexed beneath her touch. She traced another path, and another, and another, until she had stroked every ribbon of raised flesh on the broad expanse of his back.

  “I hate what happened to you,” she whispered, and tears slid down her face.

  Silas swept his thumb over her cheek. “Please don’t cry.” She’s like a sister, he told himself. A sister. Liberty leaned her head on his shoulder, and he did not have the strength to push her away. His senses stood at attention as her silky hair pressed against his neck, caught in the scruff on his jaw. The warmth of her petite body melted him like butter on fresh bread.

  “I hate what happened to you, too.” Voice gravelly, his lips brushed her hair as he spoke. “I’m sorry I’m not who you wanted me to be.”

  “You’re not who I thought you were. There is a difference.”

  “Would you promise me something, then? Leave me a little dignity and let someone else be my nurse? When we’re together, I don’t want you inspecting my wound and getting your hands dirty with it.”

  Her lips pursed, but she nodded. “Fine, I’ll send Myrtle if a doctor is not available, but you know I really wouldn’t mind tending you myself. My hands have been dirty before.”

  “Please.”

  Then the jackal bit his absent leg again, and the cords of his neck pulled taut against the pain. His arm tightened on Liberty as he squeezed his eyes shut. A groan ripped up through his chest until bursting free from his throat.

  Liberty slipped out of his arms. “I’ll get the doctor.”

  He nodded, suddenly mute in agony, and her skirt rustled as she hurried away.

  Holloway Farm

  Friday, July 10, 1863

  With more vigor than the task required, Bella stirred a kettle of milk porridge in the stuffy summer kitchen of Holloway Farm. Swirling steam thickened the air between her and Liberty, who stood, arms crossed, waiting for Bella to respond to the news she had just laid before her. But what could Bella possibly say?

  This was not supposed to happen.

  Liberty hadn’t said as much, but it was plain as day that she was falling in love with a Rebel who’d grown up on a slave-holding plantation. A man whose father, Liberty told her, used black women the same way Pierce Butler’s overseer had used Bella’s mother. And Liberty’s.

  Silas Ford, man of the Lord, took slaves to bed and shot Pa dead! Bella had heard the rhyme, too, and shuddered now to think this was the same man with whom Liberty was smitten.

  “Is it true?” Bella spoke at length. “Did he help himself to the slaves too, to satisfy his lust, free of consequences?” Liberty glared at her, though it was a logical question. He was his father’s son, after all.

  “Of course not.” Liberty spat the words. “How dare you? Remember your place, Bella.”

  “I remember my place just fine.” Bella’s voice was low as she spoke into the steam rising out of the kettle. “I remember teaching you to sew, to quilt, to bake, cook, preserve.”

  “Yes, as hired help!”

  “Hired help. That’s right, Miss Liberty. Only, I don’t recall what our payment terms have been for the last week, which I have spent helping you, and only you, ever since the battle began. I have jeopardized my relationships with the other women I work for by doing this.”

  Liberty’s eyes grew wide, and Bella could tell she never considered what Bella had risked by staying by her side. “I didn’t ask you to stay.”

  “True enough, Miss Liberty, true enough. Then why did I stay, if you weren’t paying me? Why did I help you on Wednesday carry those men out of that flooded basement? Why do I help you run your household when mine sits empty and neglected?” She backed away from the heat of the stove and pinned Liberty with a gaze. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, You better answer me when I’m talking to you, child. But Bella bit it back.

  “I know you care about my well-being—”

  “That’s right. I care about you. But I’ve noticed that you are happy enough to accept my encouragement and help, whether it’s paid for or not, but whenever you disagree with me, you put me right back down in my place.”

  Liberty studied her fingernails rather than meet Bella’s gaze again, and Bella turned back to the kettle. Used to be, that was good enough for Bella Jamison. When her last owner had died, the one who had purchased Bella “and her increase” from Pierce Butler, he had willed Liberty to his sister and left Bella a sum of money with which to start her own life, finally, as a free woman. Thank God Fanny Kemble had taught her how to read and write and even arranged for her sale off the plantation after she told her what Roswell King Jr. had done. In Gettysburg, Bella had stayed close enough to watch her daughter grow into womanhood, but far enough removed that Liberty could enjoy the freedom of living as white in a whit
e man’s world. Now that Helen Holloway was in the grave, Liberty could do as she pleased with her own life, even though she had been born a slave. She would not have to scrap together an existence, like Bella did. She would not have to keep her head down and take orders from women whose skin shone brighter in the sun. Liberty would never have to wonder if she’d be sold into slavery. She could just … live. Without fear. Without apology.

  That was fine with Bella, had always been fine. Until now.

  “You’re playing with fire, Miss Liberty.” More like she had jumped into it, heart first.

  “I told you, he said he wants to be my friend, nothing more.”

  “That’s how it starts. Would you be willing to hand over your heart to a stranger like him if he asked for it right now?”

  Liberty hesitated, and Bella rolled her eyes. “No, of course not. I barely know him.”

  “And he knows that. You’re a Union widow, Liberty. If he approached you any stronger, he knows you’d put a stop to it at once.”

  “No, that’s not true. He doesn’t even want me to be his nurse.”

  “Are you really so blind? Of course he doesn’t want you to be his nurse. He wants you to see him as a man, not as your patient.”

  Color bloomed in Liberty’s cheeks and Bella bit back the question burning in her mind: If given the opportunity, would Silas take advantage of a black woman now? A mulatto? A quadroon?

  Bella had not detected any malice from him toward her, as a colored woman. But Bella didn’t make waves. She did not concern him. If he discovered that Liberty was one-quarter Negro, that would mightily concern him, she felt sure.

  “Why are you so willing to condemn him? Just because his father was an abusive slave master? Silas’s back is rippled with scars from taking a lashing in the place of a slave woman!”