Widow of Gettysburg (Heroines Behind the Lines)

by Jocelyn Green

  He had gashed Bella’s neck? But Liberty had never seen a scar.

  She had never seen her neck.

  In an entry dated some months later: Young Bella is not safe from Mr. K—. He has taken her, though she fights, to his bed. She bears new scars for every time. Thank goodness her menses has not yet begun. I have seen girls of fourteen with babies of their ow—

  Enough! Liberty shoved the book away from her and let it thud to the floor. She buried her face in her arms as the voices of Aunt Helen and Bella clashed together in her mind, along with the words of Lt. Pierce Butler Holmes, who had called Liberty the very likeness of Roswell King Jr. Her heart bled as the lines of the Journal resounded in her spirit. She wept for Bella, for Judy, for untold numbers of women whose stories had never been recorded. She wept because she had never once asked Bella what her life was like before she knew her, had not fully considered the agony the last month’s ordeal must have meant to her.

  She wept.

  The door creaked on its hinges, and Liberty looked up to find Aunt Hester standing over her. In an instant, Aunt Hester wrapped her arms around Libbie, in a lye soap-scented squeeze. Liberty melted into it, wet Aunt Hester’s shoulder with her tears.

  “There, there, honey child,” she cooed. “You found what you was lookin’ for, didn’t you now? There, there. You can tell me about it.”

  Liberty did. Aunt Hester’s face crinkled as she nodded throughout the story, peppering it with “That’s just so,” and “That’s the way it was, too.”

  “But Aunt Hester, could Bella be my mother? Is this my heritage, too?”

  A sad smile pushed the wrinkles back on Aunt Liz’s face. “She’s never told me so. But if Bella Jamison is your mama, you can be sure of one thing. She would have to love you more than life itself to do what she did for you. Don’t you see that, child? This—” She thumped her knuckles on the journal. “This is what she protected you from. The child of a slave is born a slave, even if the father is free and white. Bella didn’t want any child of hers to have any kind of life like she knew. So she gave you up, like Moses’s mama in the Bible. She thought it was better you didn’t know.”

  Liberty’s head spun. Born a slave? She pushed back from the table and began to rise. Her legs didn’t hold her, and she stumbled over the table.

  “You sick? Lie down, child.” Aunt Hester ushered her over to the couch in the front room.

  “I’m s-s-so cold.” Liberty’s teeth chattered. “I’m freezing.” Aunt Hester covered her with a quilt while mumbling about the sweltering heat. “Can I just wait here for a little bit? Maybe Bella will come home.”

  Aunt Hester left, and Bella did not come. Chilled with fever, Liberty clutched at the quilt to pull it tighter around her shoulders—and froze when her fingers felt a familiar patch of flannel. Holding the quilt up to the light that slanted through the shutters, a piece of red and cream pinstripe shone back at her. At that moment, Liberty knew. This patch, and the one on her own quilt, had been cut from the same cloth.

  Just like her and Bella.

  Beaufort, South Carolina

  Friday, July 31, 1863

  A grove of live oaks, dripping with moss and shadow, crowded down a grassy bank as if to dip their giant toes in the river that curved around Beaufort in a watery embrace. Waves of wet heat washed over Bella as she and Harrison turned onto Church Street, each one triggering memories of her childhood in the South.

  “Are you ready?” Harrison mopped his damp forehead with his handkerchief and nodded toward the Episcopal Church, now serving as hospital for the 54th Massachussetts. The white building was nearly blinding in its sunlit brilliance, while in the cemetery before it, amputations were carried out on tables made from tombstones. Fanning herself with a palmetto branch, Bella averted her gaze from the pile of black limbs as Harrison escorted her through the front door.

  Inside, chandeliers hung high over pews packed with men. It was a better hospital than the barn at Holloway Farm, but wooden benches did not make soft beds. Moans bounced between the walls and high ceiling of the sanctuary like discordant organ notes. Though the air was heavy with the smell of injury, Bella’s senses had mercifully dulled to it. A sidelong glance at Harrison told her he was not so lucky.

  “I can find him on my own.” She waved Harrison away. “I’ll find you outside when I’m done.” With a tug on his collar and weak smile, he stepped outside again.

  Slowly, Bella walked down the center aisle, craning her neck as she turned right and left in search of her husband, until she found him. Heart in her throat, she squeezed between the pews and sidled closer, finally kneeling by his side.

  “Abraham? It’s me, Bella.” After so many weeks without communication, she felt like reintroducing herself.

  He awoke. “Bella? You’re here?” He reached out and grasped her hand, brought it to his cracked lips and kissed it. “I heard about the battle at Gettysburg. You’re all right?”

  She fanned him with the palmetto branch. “I’m all right.” It was such a relative term. But a crowded church hospital in South Carolina was not the place to share the details of her recent ordeal. Anyone who overheard her say she worked at a Confederate field hospital would not be likely to be sympathetic. “How do you fare?”

  “It’s nothing, a wound in the thigh, but it will heal. How did you know, how did you get here?”

  “It was in the papers, of course. A reporter brought me here to find you. Will you come home now?” Cicadas thrummed through the open windows as she waited for his answer.

  “No. I can still fight.”

  “For pay?” She had not intended to sound so shrill. But she had been without his support for months, and it wasn’t getting any easier to live on the income from her employers. She may not even have any left by the time she got home after this trip.

  “For honor.”

  Her hand stilled for a moment. “What does that even mean, Abraham? The army feeds you, but it doesn’t feed me. I’m hungry. Do you hear me?”

  Surprise—disappointment in Bella, she guessed—played across his features, and she was ashamed that their reunion had grown bitter so quickly. “They offered us pay, but it wasn’t what we agreed to. They said they’d pay us thirteen dollars a month, same as the white soldiers. Now they say they’ll give us ten, but they’ll take three dollars out for uniforms. Seven dollars—it’s almost half-pay.”

  “And seven dollars more than nothing! Take the money, Abraham, I would take it if I could.”

  His face knotted in frustration. “Don’t you get it? We gotta fight on equal terms with the white soldiers or they’ll only think of us as hired labor. We have to help win this war or we’ll never be granted full citizenship. We’re going to hold out and keep fighting until they give us what they promised us. Equal pay.”

  Tears choked Bella. “How many men did the 54th lose at Fort Wagner, Abraham?”

  He looked away.

  “Two hundred ninety-seven casualties out of six hundred men. You were cut to pieces, Abraham, and now you’re telling me not only did you do it for free once, but you’d do it for free again. Now tell me how that makes a lick of sense to you.”

  “We did more than just lose men, Bella,” he growled, and her heart ached that they spent their time arguing. “We proved that black men fight. Black men have honor. We lost men because we threw ourselves into the fray, willing to sacrifice all for our country, and for the freedom of colored folks everywhere. After the raid at Darien, people thought colored troops were common looters, undeserving of any respect. And I can see why. But now we’ve shown them we deserve a place in this country alongside the white men. Do you see?”

  She saw. But she was still hungry. “I didn’t come here to fight, Abe. I came because I thought you might want me here.”

  “You know I’m glad to see you. But I’m not coming home yet, if that’s what you’re after. Go home, Bella.”

  Bella pressed her lips into a line, felt her nostrils flare as she stood up an
d looked out over the pews. “Abraham, is that a woman I see?”

  “Rosalie, yes.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was shot in the shoulder by a white Union officer for getting between him and her daughter.”

  Bella’s hackles rose. “What did you say?”

  “Rosalie and her daughter are former slaves and serve with the colored nurses and laundresses at the Union general hospital. An officer tried to take her daughter to his bed, and she fought him. He shot her for it, and she is still recovering.”

  “A Yankee did that,” she repeated, as much to herself as to Abraham.

  “Just so.”

  “Were there no consequences for the man?”

  “Not one. Other officers have the same idea. Do you see now, Bella, why we fight? Not just to defeat the South, but to defeat the idea everywhere that colored people are less valuable and less worthy of respect than whites.”

  Bella was still looking at Rosalie, motionless in her bed, shot for trying to protect her daughter. That was a story fit for a newspaper.

  And what had Bella done to protect Liberty? Dressed down a reporter. But Liberty was still alone in a sea of Southern men, when even the Northern ones could not be trusted.

  Bella lingered by Abraham’s side a while longer, forcing herself to speak of pleasant things when the very unpleasant clamored for her attention. When she could see he needed to rest, they said goodbye, and Bella stepped back outside, squinting into the sunshine.

  Harrison approached her, his brown eyes dark, his carrot-colored hair matted to his head from wearing his hat. She joined him, and they left the cemetery together.

  “Mr. Caldwell, I’ve got a story for you.”

  “Well, I am sorry to say, I have no paper.”

  Bella stopped walking. “What?”

  “There was a letter from my editor at the Union headquarters at the Verdier House, probably arrived here about the same time we did. I’ve been sacked.”

  “Why?”

  He cleared his throat. “Apparently, I’ve been scooped. That means someone else printed a story I was working on.” He winced, and she knew.

  “Take me home, Mr. Caldwell. On the next steamer north.”

  Holloway Farm

  Friday, July 31, 1863

  Silas sat in the armchair on the porch and stared blankly toward the road, barely noticing the crickets’ song. Darkness coated him, inside and out.

  He had fallen in love with a quadroon? I don’t know that for certain yet. But his gut told him it was the truth. Psyche’s face surged in his mind, the slave who wanted to carry a white man’s child. His child. Silas rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. No, no, Liberty would never do that. She had no idea what her heritage was. She wasn’t even looking for a suitor. Still, he could not shake the feeling that his developing relationship with Libbie had been wrong. According to the law, it was. Marriage between whites and Negroes was illegal. It couldn’t be done. So whatever affection he might harbor for Liberty Holloway, he couldn’t do a thing about it. He would not court her, because he could not marry her. The decision was out of his hands. Leaning back in his chair, he waited for the relief of conclusion to wash over him.

  It didn’t. Was it in his blood, this desire for a woman he couldn’t have? It hadn’t stopped his father, but Silas would not follow in those footsteps. He would respect the law. But the law also sanctions slavery, and you don’t support that. His conscience pricked. This is different, he told himself. But how? The same principles drive both slavery and the law forbidding inter-racial marriage. No, it’s different. Somehow it’s different. Hoofbeats sounded on the road to Holloway Farm, and something told him that was the sound of his own heart, running away, again.

  But these hoofbeats grew louder. The covered wagon turned into the lane, the horse ambled slowly toward the dooryard. It was Liberty. He had no idea how to behave around her now, and he guessed she felt the same about him. For now, it was enough for Silas to know she was safely home. Dawn was beginning to break over the ridge. In the pale grey light, he took up his crutch, ducked into the house, and nearly tripped over Isaac.

  “Watch it!”

  Silas had little patience for this fool. “Have you seen Dr. O’Leary yet this morning?”

  “No.” Isaac stretched and pushed himself up to his feet.

  Silas looked over his shoulder. The wagon was nearly at the house. “Just tell him Liberty’s back with his horse and wagon. She wasn’t well when she left. I was hoping he could see to her, make sure she’s all right.”

  “Suddenly not interested in her yourself anymore, are you, Silas?” His name sounded ridiculous on Isaac’s lisping tongue. “Don’t look so shocked. Myrtle told me all about it. She heard the whole thing.”

  Silas’s face grew warm. “Who else knows?”

  Isaac shrugged. “Only everybody.” He flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Looks like you weren’t the only one trying to hide who you really were. But cheer up! Just because she’s not good enough for the main course don’t mean you can’t have a little on the side!” He licked his lips.

  In an instant, Silas’s hand was clutching Isaac’s puny throat, his fingers itching to squeeze ever tighter. Isaac’s face grew red, tiny guttural noises escaping his mutilated mouth. Rage boiled in Silas like a long-dormant geyser blasting up through the surface, against all the men who thought women of any color were fair game for their own desires—against Isaac, against his father … against himself, for not being able to stop it.

  Isaac sputtered in Silas’s grip, the lump of his throat probing his sweaty palm. Then with a single well-placed kick, he knocked the crutch from under Silas. As Silas jerked to balance himself, Isaac twisted out of his grasp and rubbed his throat, coughing.

  “You could have killed me!” he wheezed.

  Shaken at how close he had come to killing another man, Silas picked up his crutch and threaded his way through the house to exit at the back door.

  Crickets chirped all around Liberty as Isaac helped her out of the wagon. She had never meant to sleep so long at Bella’s house, and had ridden straight home as soon as she awoke early that morning.

  “Feeling better, Miss Holloway?” Isaac held her elbow as he guided her into the house.

  “Not completely, to be honest. Do you think the doctors would mind if I just rest awhile longer in my own bed? Maybe just an hour or so.”

  “That would be just fine, I reckon. Most are still sleeping themselves. It would be a shame to wake them just yet, wouldn’t it?”

  Liberty nodded, but paused at the bottom of the stairs. She was worn out at the mere sight of them.

  “Would you let me help you to your room?”

  Normally she’d say no. But this time she was relieved to make an exception. With an arm around her waist, he helped support her to the top of the stairs. To her surprise, Major followed, his nails clicking on the hardwood stairs. He never followed her up the stairs, ever since Levi had died. A dart of pain shot up her neck as she looked over her shoulder at him. He whined.

  At the top of the stairs, Liberty thanked Isaac and knelt to wrap her arms around Major’s furry neck. “What is it, boy?” His good eye was clouded. He did not wag his tail.

  “Come on, Miss Holloway, let’s get you to bed.”

  “I can take it from here, Isaac, thank you. Your job is done.”

  He yanked her up by her arm. “Not quite.”

  Though he smiled at her, the look in his eyes turned Liberty’s blood cold as he turned her toward her bedroom.

  “Not you.” Isaac shoved Major back with his boot before closing and locking the door.

  The click of the latch blasted in Libbie’s ears like cannon fire. Her mouth went dry, her knees weak, and she reached for the bedpost for support.

  “That’s right, Lib, just ease on back onto that bed.” His lisping voice raked her skin.

  Her heart pulsed in her throat as he approached.

  “Now. We got oursel
ves a score to settle, don’t we? You been ordering me around for weeks, making me call you Miss, acting like you own the place.” Major whined from the other side of the door as he slid his paws beneath it.

  “I do own this place, Isaac.”

  He sneered. “Where I come from, colored folks don’t own property. And now I know, you got colored blood in you. Ain’t that so? The whole world knows it now, too.”

  The hair on the back of her neck raised on end. Bella’s face swam before her. Rise up, Miss Liberty. “This is my farm. I am the mistress here, and I order you to leave immediately.” She lifted her chin, but her voice was less convincing than her words.

  Isaac laughed. “A colored mistress!” He closed the distance between them, and she leaned back, pinned against the bedpost. Heat radiated in the mere inches separating their bodies. “You don’t look colored, Lib. But I am only too happy to take that paper’s word for it. It makes this all the more pleasant for me.”

  He reached for her collar button. She knocked his hand away, but he caught both her wrists and squeezed.

  “Oh no, you don’t. This has been a long time coming.”

  Rise up, Miss Liberty.

  Her arms still held fast in Isaac’s grip, she thrust her knee up sharply into his groin. His pain released her as a growl rumbled up out of his chest. Heart beating wildly against its cage, Liberty rolled over the bed and off the other side, then scrambled toward the door, her dress dragging on the floor behind her without the support of her hoops.

  Isaac whirled around and stomped on the hem of her skirt. Her body jerked backwards, and he lunged for her waist.

  “Stop!” she gasped. Weak from sickness, she had no spare strength to scream.

  He ground her body against his, his eyes smoldering. “We’re done talking. It’s time to put you in your place.” A feral smile curled his lips. “And to put me in mine.”

  Remember your place. How many times had Liberty said that to Bella?