The Long Way Home

by Lauraine Snelling

  Jesselynn nodded. ‘‘We spent last winter in caves around Springfield, Missouri. Guess this won’t be much different.’’

  ‘‘Plenty snow here, but’’—he drew a circle with his arm to encompass the area—‘‘good protection. Game nearby. Water. We will do well.’’

  ‘‘Will the creek freeze over?’’

  ‘‘Sometimes yes, sometimes no. We can cut hay and bring it back on the wagons.’’

  Jesselynn thought to the bags of oats she had purchased at the fort. Enough to feed the mares through their foaling? Enough to plant next summer?

  ‘‘Come, I will show you more.’’

  Not many minutes later they trotted around a corner with a rock face perhaps twenty feet high. Jesselynn felt like she’d stepped into a dream. The valley widened out, the creek deepened, lined by willows and cottonwood with deep green pine climbing the gentle sides of the hills. Grass rippled like a green lake under a breeze.

  A slap echoed in the valley.

  ‘‘What was that?’’

  ‘‘Beaver. They dammed the creek. That’s why the pond. They’re just announcing visitors.’’

  ‘‘Why can’t we winter here? This is beautiful.’’

  ‘‘No caves. But here is where we build a house out of that rock we came around. You saw the square stones. Like using bricks.’’

  Jesselynn leaned on her arms crossed over Ahab’s withers. ‘‘This is some beautiful.’’

  ‘‘When the red bark of the low brush shines through the snow or ice, then too this valley has beauty.’’

  ‘‘You have stayed here in the past?’’

  ‘‘In the caves one winter, my father and I, after my mother died.’’

  ‘‘No wonder you wanted to come back here.’’ She looked to the west where hills covered with oak and evergreens climbed to the mountains hidden in the distance. ‘‘Let’s get the others, Mr. Torstead. Our new life is about to begin.’’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Richmond, Virginia

  ‘‘We’ll still be going then?’’

  ‘‘I can put it off three more days, but no longer.’’

  ‘‘What about disguises?’’

  ‘‘We’re working on that.’’

  Louisa wondered who he meant by ‘‘we.’’ Who was providing the money for this trip, and who was getting them the quinine on the other end? Why did her brother see the need to be so secretive here at home? She could understand out in public, but at home? The ‘‘why’s’’ could stretch on forever.

  Secret missions brought up another thought. She’d heard rumors of secret missions before her lieutenant told her he had to return to his family home. Who had blown up the train that took his life? Did they ever search for or catch the fiends that did such things? Or was that a natural part of war?

  The war. Everything always came back to the war.

  ‘‘And when will I be informed as to what I am to do?’’ She didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  Zachary shook his head, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth.

  ‘‘I’ve been a bit of a dolt, haven’t I?’’

  ‘‘Now that I won’t argue with.’’ Louisa knew she’d forgive him anything when he turned on the Highwood charm. ‘‘You’ve been treating Aunt Sylvania most shabbily, and you know she dotes on you.’’

  He had the grace to look ashamed.

  Thank you, Lord, there is hope for my brother yet.

  ‘‘I will go up and see her.’’

  ‘‘I know the stairs are hard for you, but—’’

  He interrupted her before she could finish her sentence. ‘‘But not impossible.’’

  ‘‘That wasn’t what I was going to say.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps not, but you’ve thought it.’’

  Louisa looked down. ‘‘I stand condemned.’’

  ‘‘No, Louisa, don’t ever even think such things.’’ He reached for her hand. ‘‘Never, do you hear me?’’ His voice shook, the whisper cutting to her heart.

  She looked into his eye, past the fire to see—what? Fear?

  Zachary shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. When she looked at him again, the man she’d come to dislike gazed back at her.

  ‘‘I need to go sit with Aunt Sylvania. When you come to see her, bring that charming man with you, the brother I used to know.’’ Pivoting so her skirts swished, she sailed out the door, her teeth clenched at all the other words she would like to have said.

  Dear Lord, what do I do with him? I want to strangle him one minute and hold him the next. I know he’s in pain much of the time, but this cruelty—that’s not my brother. And if it’s not my brother, who is it? What is it?

  The sharp edges that jutted and jabbed all around downstairs had not made it up the stairs. Peace, soothing and gentle, reigned in Aunt Sylvania’s room. The evening breeze danced with the sheer white curtains, wafting the fragrance of the roses out through the open door.

  Aunt Sylvania sat in her chair, pulled up by the window to catch the morning sun and any errant breeze. Her Bible lay open on her lap, her lips moving silently as she read.

  In the three days since the incident—Louisa had had a hard time using the word apoplexy—Aunt Sylvania had regained some use of her hand, and her smile could faintly move the right side of her mouth. Louisa encouraged her to smile often. While her walking gained strength daily, she had yet to venture downstairs.

  The ginger kitten with a white patch on its chest brought smiles to the faces of all who lived there. When Aunt Sylvania dragged a piece of string for the kitten to chase, Louisa said she had to use her right hand to do so. And when the kitten was played out, he snuggled in any lap available but preferred Sylvania’s, his purr lion-sized. Excusing herself, Louisa returned downstairs when Zachary made his way into Sylvania’s room.

  One of the soldiers fashioned a lopsided ball of wood that the kitten batted around, his antics making everyone laugh.

  Louisa wished she had thought of a pet sooner. She also wished the kitten would stay a kitten, since it brought such pleasure.

  They had yet to choose a name for it.

  ‘‘We need a name for our kitten,’’ Louisa mentioned after grace at the supper table.

  ‘‘I think Spot or Patch,’’ one of the men said.

  Another shook his head. ‘‘Too ordinary.’’

  ‘‘Fluffy?’’ Everyone made a face.

  ‘‘We had one we called Cat.’’ The lieutenant shrugged. ‘‘Just a thought.’’

  ‘‘What is Spot or White in French? That would sound exotic.’’

  ‘‘Blanc.’’

  ‘‘Nah, he’s a cat. Blanc would embarrass him. I say we call him Bones.’’

  ‘‘Bones?’’ Louisa wrinkled her nose. ‘‘What kind of name is that?’’ But looking around at the grinning faces, she couldn’t help but smile back. ‘‘Bones it is, I reckon.’’

  When the doctor came the next morning, he decreed this was the day Aunt Sylvania went downstairs.

  Louisa breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been both dreading and anticipating this day and praying it would happen before she had to leave.

  She had yet to tell Aunt Sylvania she would be leaving. But every evening since she and Zachary had their discussion, he had forced himself to stump-hop up the stairs to visit with his aunt, no matter how late he arrived home from his job.

  He said very little about working in the law firm and even less about his evening meetings, but he made Aunt Sylvania laugh, and that was all that mattered to Louisa.

  ‘‘Aunt, I have something I need to tell you.’’ Sitting together while Aunt Sylvania read and Louisa stitched, the afternoon had passed pleasantly.

  ‘‘You’re leaving again, aren’t you?’’ The accusation chased the peace to hiding in the corners.

  ‘‘Yes. Zachary cannot do this alone.’’

  Louisa looked up to see a tear leak from the down-pulled eye. Louisa fell to her knees at the side of Sylv
ania’s chair. She laid both hands on her aunt’s arm, which was already shrunk thin from the illness. If she left, would Sylvania keep on squeezing the sock and strengthening her arm?

  Bones stretched and stirred in Sylvania’s lap, yawning wide to show a pink tongue and tiny white teeth.

  ‘‘Oh, you poor little thing. Louisa disturbed you.’’ Sylvania stroked the kitten with her left hand until she caught Louisa’s eye and switched. ‘‘See, I nee—’’ She cut off the word.

  Louisa felt like Zachary had her by one arm and Sylvania the other, and that they were pulling her apart like medieval torturers.

  Sylvania patted Louisa’s hand. ‘‘Nothing is more important than helping our soldiers. You go on with Zachary. There are plenty here who will help me. By the time you g-get back, I will be my old self.’’

  Louisa stared into her aunt’s eyes. If only the sorrow-filled eyes matched the commonsense mouth.

  The kitten arched his back and rubbed against Sylvania’s chest. His straight-up tail tickled her under the chin. When the old lady stroked his back, his purr could be heard clear downstairs.

  ‘‘Besides, I can go down and read to the boys again and encourage them in their stitching. We will keep busy until you return.’’

  Was there a trace of the former Sylvania coming out again?

  With desperation in her soul, Louisa prayed so.

  When Louisa and Zachary drove off in the predawn, she looked back at the house. Protect them, please, dear Lord. It was all she could do to not plead with her brother to make him turn around.

  No one gave a second glance to the old man with his octoroon maid when they boarded the westbound train at Richmond. One old darkie helped her with the trunk she wrestled from the back of the buggy.

  ‘‘Thankee, suh,’’ she muttered, keeping her head down in an attitude of submission. No one could see her blue eyes that way, and the white bandana tied round her hair, like any mammy or slave, hid her dark blond hair. Walnut dye changed her skin to the octoroon hue.

  Again their papers took them through both lines, although Louisa chewed the metallic taste of fear each time.

  When they returned after two weeks, Aunt Sylvania greeted them at the door. While she carried her right arm closer to her body, Louisa could hardly detect the damage to her aunt’s face, as the smile she welcomed them home with stretched both cheeks and her hug felt as of before.

  Thank you, Lord, thank you. Louisa collapsed on her bed and slept round the clock. The trunk full of quinine and morphine disappeared like hoarfrost in the sun.

  Summer dragged on under a mantle of humidity that wilted both men and beast. The wounded troops from Gettysburg still filled the hospitals, the churches commandeered as hospitals, and the homes that had taken in recovering patients.

  A knock at the door early one morning sent Abby scurrying to answer and Louisa looking to see how they could accommodate another pallet.

  ‘‘Come quick,’’ a black maid pleaded. ‘‘Missy Carrie Mae done be havin’ her baby. She be cryin’ for you.’’ She nodded to Louisa. ‘‘She say she be dyin’.’’ The young woman’s black eyes rolled white with fear.

  ‘‘Has she called a midwife?’’ Louisa asked as she loaded a basket with a Bible, the layette she had stitched, and smelling salts, along with other things. She followed the maid out to the buggy waiting at the curb.

  ‘‘I don’ know.’’

  ‘‘Give her our blessings,’’ Aunt Sylvania called from the front porch.

  Louisa waved back and turned to the maid. ‘‘How long has she been in labor?’’

  ‘‘She woke up before cockcrow sayin’ her back hurt.’’

  ‘‘Where is Mr. Jefferson?’’

  ‘‘Gone somewhere. I don’ know.’’

  ‘‘What is your name?’’ Louisa hadn’t seen this particular maid before.

  ‘‘I’se Becca, and I be new. I don’ never seen a baby born before.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure Carrie Mae is doing just fine. Women been having babies since time began.’’ Louisa tried to sound as comforting as possible. After all, she remembered how Carrie Mae couldn’t stand pain of any kind and would carry on until their mother lost patience. For their gentle mother to say, ‘‘Land sakes, Carrie Mae, you carry on worse than a just-weaned calf’’ sent Louisa and Jesselynn out of the house to snicker at their sister’s expense.

  Lord, please let that be the case here. While I attended one baby’s birth with Mother, I’ve not helped on my own. ‘‘Why didn’t Carrie Mae call for the midwife?’’

  ‘‘I don’ know she did or din’t.’’

  And what happened to that French maid? ‘‘Is Elise still with my sister?’’

  ‘‘Yes’m, but she don’ know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no baby neither.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’

  Three hours later, Carrie Mae was still carrying on, the pains coming closer and harder.

  Louisa wanted to stuff a rag in her sister’s mouth. ‘‘Carrie Mae, you get up here and walk with me right now!’’

  ‘I want Jefferson here.’’

  ‘‘Mama always said the only thing men were good for at a birthing was lowering the level of whiskey in the cupboard.’’ She hoisted Carrie Mae off the bed and, with one arm around her, forced her to keep walking.

  ‘‘Now sing with me. ‘O, I wish I was in the land of cotton.’ Sing, Carrie Mae, sing.’’ They went on to ‘‘Amazing Grace’’ and ‘‘Rock of Ages.’’ Each time a contraction came they stopped walking and singing for Carrie Mae to double over and cry.

  ‘‘Breathe, Carrie Mae. Pain is always less if you ride it, not fight it. Now take a deep breath and let it all out.’’

  They kept on walking.

  ‘‘Oh! Oh no.’’ Carrie Mae stared down at the puddle widening around her feet.

  ‘‘Not oh no, oh good. Now we can get on with this.’’ Louisa nodded toward the two maids alternately cowering in the corner and helping walk their mistress.

  ‘‘Becca, you are going to sit on the bed with your back against the wall, and Carrie Mae will lean against you. You puff with her. Elise, tie these sheets to the end of the bed for her to pull on.’’ Louisa handed her the sheets she’d had them knot earlier. ‘‘We’re going to have a beautiful little son or daughter here by the time Jefferson returns, and that is just how it should be.’’

  As the pains came faster and harder, she finally allowed Carrie Mae to climb on the bed, her back braced against Becca and her hands knotted into the sheets.

  ‘‘Now, relax between these, and . . .’’

  Carrie Mae scrunched her face, gritted her teeth, and groaned as another wave rolled over her. ‘‘You give instructions . . . so well here . . . and you’ve never been through this.’’ Her panting between words made Louisa smile.

  ‘‘That’s the way. Get angry at me if it will help you.’’ With the next contraction that arched Carrie Mae right off the bed, Louisa checked. Sure enough, she saw a small circle that showed the baby’s head.

  ‘‘I can see it, dear sister. I can see the hair, dark like Jefferson’s. When you feel like pushing, you just push away. We’re almost there.’’

  Another three good hard contractions, along with a scream through each, and Louisa assisted her niece into the world, turning her gently as her shoulders slipped through the opening.

  ‘‘Ah, Carrie Mae, Mama would say you were made for bearing babies.’’ She laid the already squalling infant on her mother’s chest. ‘‘See, isn’t she beautiful?’’

  Carrie Mae laid back against Becca’s arms, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks, one finger tracing her daughter’s cheek. ‘‘She’s so tiny.’’

  ‘‘I surely do hope so. Any bigger and you’d have had real problems.’’

  Elise handed Louisa a warmed towel. ‘‘You want to wrap her?’’

  ‘‘Not yet. Mama said never cut the cord until it lays flat.’’ Louisa used the towel to dry off her own face, including tears, and then her si
ster’s.

  ‘‘Ah, Carrie Mae, you did splendidly.’’

  ‘‘I did, didn’t I?’’ Her face scrunched again. ‘‘Ow.’’

  With the cord cut and the afterbirth delivered, Louisa washed the baby, who seemed to be looking right at her.

  ‘‘Look at you, already studying on the world. I can tell you are one smart little girl, going to be pretty as a daisy.’’ She kept up the soft whispers as she swished the tiny body in a pan of warm water. She dried her and, after diapering and swaddling, laid the baby back in Carrie Mae’s waiting arms.

  While she’d been caring for the baby, the two other women cleaned up Carrie Mae, changed the bed, and dressed her again.

  When Jefferson walked in an hour later, he saw his wife, all lovely with her hair combed, sleeping sweetly with his equally beautiful daughter asleep in her arms.

  ‘‘Now, if that isn’t about the prettiest picture I ever did see.’’ He leaned over to kiss his wife on the forehead.

  ‘‘What have you decided to name her?’’ Louisa kept her voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping pair.

  ‘‘Her?’’

  ‘‘Yes, you have a daughter.’’

  ‘‘Oh, well, ah . . .’’

  Louisa felt like smacking him. What was so all-fired important about having a son first? ‘‘Mother and baby are doing just fine.’’

  Jefferson recovered himself and turned to Louisa. ‘‘I do believe we should name this little darlin’ after her maternal grandmother. How does that sound to you?’’

  ‘‘Miriam Amelia, wouldn’t that be lovely?’’ Louisa knew Jefferson’s mother would want her name used too. No sense creating discord in the family. She smiled at her brother-in-law. ‘‘That’s very kind of you, Jefferson. I’m sure Carrie Mae will be most happy.’’

  ‘‘Jefferson?’’ The sleepy voice brought their attention back to the bed. He crossed and knelt beside his wife, his stump around her head, his hand clasping hers.