by Murray Pura
Mr. Palmer’s face tightened and his wife gave him a worried look, opening her mouth to say something as he set down his fork and knife. But he simply looked out the window across the room from him at the darkness. “It will be so for some time.”
Carson escorted Lyndel on the morning train as far as Harrisburg after she bid a long goodbye to Morganne at the depot. At Harrisburg the officer said his farewells and she carried on to Lancaster and Elizabethtown alone. Mr. Palmer had sent a cable on her behalf the night before and Nathaniel and the twins were at the station to meet her, as were her parents. Nathaniel laughed and shouted and lifted her off the ground with his arm. Lincoln and Corinth would not be separated from their mother and at home the three of them lay on the big bed and had a nap while Nathaniel smiled, sat in the rocking chair, and watched them sleep.
Lyndel had been gone for three months and many things had happened among the Amish in Elizabethtown while she had been away. Levi and his wife were expecting their second child. Ham was going to take his baptismal vows on Easter Sunday and his wedding vows immediately afterward. On Good Friday evening the church would gather at the Keim house to honor Christ’s crucifixion with a singing of hymns.
Lyndel sat with the women that Good Friday, the twins quiet in her lap, and thought how the Amish hymns that dwelt on suffering and persecution suited Good Friday with their slow and darkly winding words. Many times she sang and many times she closed her eyes and listened to the others talk to God in the shadow of the Cross. When they walked home from her parents’ house, the home where she had grown up, one part of the sky was completely black while the other flashed with stars.
She had found it difficult to sleep the first nights back: Corinth and Lincoln insisted on lying on either side of her and they kicked and squirmed from dusk to dawn…a bed felt strange to her as did everything about the house and the Amish farming community…the shock and carnage of battle followed her into the night and into the corners of her room. But after the slowly moving river of singing on Friday she slept with the children as if blessed while Nathaniel lay on the narrow strip of bed and quilt that was left to him.
The knocking at the door of their house made her open her eyes. The children did not stir but Nathaniel was no longer at her side. She could see light beyond the shade of the window and wondered what time it was. Certainly past six or seven. She wished Nathaniel would stop letting her sleep in. It was time to get back into the daily routine of an Amish wife and mother, and that meant getting up at five or five thirty.
She heard her husband’s voice thanking someone at the door. A horse cantered out of their yard and out along the road. The floorboards creaked as Nathaniel took a few steps and stopped. There was a rustle of paper. Silence.
He opened the bedroom door. There was a telegram in his hand. She thought he seemed pale and decided it was the dimness of the room. But his face was like stone.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”
“We have a cable from Hiram.”
“Hiram? Is Davey all right? Is it about the wedding?” She sat up. “They’re still going ahead with it, aren’t they? Next week? I fear the twins will have to travel with us, they won’t be parted from me again.”
“The president’s been shot.”
Cold pierced through Lyndel’s head and chest. “What? Shot? How could he be shot?” It felt as if a knife had gone into her throat. “They must get the surgeons. Stop the bleeding. Where was he hit? In the leg? In the arm? Someone must apply a tourniquet—”
“He was shot in the back of the head last night.” Nathaniel’s eyes were large and dark. “His heart stopped beating an hour ago, Lyndel. He’s dead.”
32
Lyndel stepped from the train and stood on the platform at Elizabethtown. People brushed past her to greet family and friends. A boy was selling newspapers and hollering at the top of his lungs.
“The Sunday edition for April 23rd, 1865! Lincoln’s funeral train arrives in Harrisburg on Saturday! Moves on to Philadelphia! Lincoln placed in the east wing of Independence Hall where the Declaration of Independence was signed! Double line of mourners three miles long! Get your copy! This is history, folks!”
A lineup formed in front of him. Men and women had their coins ready. Lyndel stepped off the platform and looked toward the roadway. The sun was bright and she felt the warmth in her black dress.
“Lyndy!”
She turned. Nathaniel smiled and put his arm around her and hugged her tightly.
“How I missed you—even three days is too long! How we all missed you!”
She touched his face. “And I all of you. How are the children? How are you, my darling?”
“I’m well. Lincoln and Corinth have baked you a surprise cake with the help of half the Amish in Lancaster County. And, of course, their cousin, Levi’s boy.”
Lyndel laughed. “Nathaniel, all three are only a year old. What could they possibly do in the baking of a cake?”
“You can ask them—if you are able to understand their mix of words and half-words you are better off than I am. However, the twins have an even bigger surprise than a cake.”
“Oh, what could my sweet babes do that would be an even bigger surprise than a cake they baked?”
“Come home and you’ll see.”
She leaned against him. “Yes, please, take me home.”
Good Boy pulled the carriage along the dirt road to the Amish farms. Lyndel rested her head against Nathaniel’s right shoulder where the armless sleeve of his black coat had been pinned up. She closed her eyes a few minutes and listened to the hooves and wheels and the creak of the carriage. Finally she sat up.
“I want to tell you about the funeral procession,” she said.
“I should like to hear about that.”
“Not everything. Just what I think would have affected you the most.”
“All right.”
“The day was sunny—like today. African troops were at the front. After that came the funeral car and a horse without a rider. Those of us who wished marched behind.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. And the most amazing thing happened. Soldiers poured out of the Washington hospitals and joined the procession. Nathaniel, they were all around me—still with bandages, some getting along as best they could on their crutches—several wore the black hats and uniforms of the Iron Brigade.”
“No.”
She smiled. “You would have been proud of them. How tall they looked. How brave.”
A certain light came into his green eyes as she told him this. It was a light she didn’t see often. Leaning forward she patted his knee.
“You knew the Iron Brigade was the honor guard.”
His face lit up. “I didn’t know that.”
“And something else.”
“What?”
“As I walked, hundreds—oh, no, thousands—of citizens, black citizens, formed just ahead of me. They were in lines of forty from curb to curb—one hundred lines! They wore suits and tall black-silk hats and white gloves. They were holding hands as they marched.”
“Thanks be to God.”
“They laid him in the rotunda of the Capitol. I waited in line and paid my respects—our respects. I prayed.”
“Gut.”
“I saw General Grant. And Lincoln’s son Robert.”
“How was…how was Lincoln’s face?”
Lyndel brushed at her eyes. “Ah. He almost could have sat up and asked me how our family was. The same weariness. The same sadness. Very hard to see.”
“But you’re still glad you went.”
“Yes, of course. And I believe his face is brighter now, Nathaniel. That he knows the joy that eluded him here.”
“Amen to that.”
They rounded a bend and the farms were suddenly very close. She could see people milling about in front of their house.
“What is this?” she asked.
“A homecoming.”
“A h
omecoming? Nathaniel, I was only away three days.”
“But it’s also your birthday.”
“Not until later in the week.”
He shrugged and grinned. “Two birds with one stone.”
She put her hand on the one arm left to him. “Slow down.”
“What?”
“You must slow down so you can read something before we reach the house.”
“Surely it can wait.”
“No.”
His left hand tightened on the reins. “Whoa then, Boy, whoa up, take it easy.” Once the horse had slowed he looked at Lyndel. “So what is this thing that is so important I must read it immediately?”
She handed him an envelope she had already opened. It was addressed to them. He frowned as he looked down at it, examining it intently. “So this…this looks the same as the handwriting on the pass you took to Antietam.”
“There is a reason for that.”
He glanced at her then drew the letter from the envelope.
Maundy Thursday
April 13th
Dear Captain and Mrs. King:
There has been so much of a “to do” with General Lee’s surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia it reminds me of an Illinois barn-raising, except we seem to be putting up a hundred barns at once with all the meals and celebrations that go with them. Yet I would be remiss if I did not mention several things: my gratitude, Mrs. King, for your volunteering to nurse in the recent Petersburg Campaign despite having two young children at home; the honor you both do me by naming your daughter after myself—daughters are wonderful gifts from our God and Mrs. Lincoln and I did not get our fair share; Captain King, recipient of the Medal of Honor, the thanks once again of a grateful president for the stand of the 19th Indiana and the Iron Brigade on July 1st, 1863, that helped bring our Republic to this glorious day. My speech at Gettysburg then was a simple thing, yet includes much of what I believe about America and the importance of that battle, so I hope it may be taken as a token of my esteem for you and your men, living and dead.
I look forward to a grand celebration of God and the freedom he extends to us in Christ this Easter Sunday morning. While we venerate the Resurrection of our Lord I believe God will be gracious enough to permit me to also thank him for the resurrection of our nation.
Affectionately.
A. Lincoln
“That is...a great honor,” said Nathaniel huskily, returning letter and envelope to Lyndel. “That goes in the family Bible.”
“Thank you. I also think that is where we must place it.”
“God bless the man.”
She bowed her head a moment and nodded. “It was never mailed because of his death. Grant was asked to deliver the letter since he knew me from Petersburg.”
“He gave it to you before the funeral?”
“Ja. Just hours before.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He thanked me again for my nursing work at Petersburg. He also said the day of Lincoln’s funeral was the saddest of his life.”
Nathaniel thought for a few moments. “Ja,” he finally said.
Then he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “So. And now are you ready for your birthday party, old woman?”
She laughed. “Charge ahead. I am anxious to see what little Corinth and Lincoln have in store. You have piqued my curiosity, Nathaniel King.”
“You won’t have long to wait. Hey-yup, Boy, hey-yo!”
Good Boy surged ahead and brought them to the house and a yard overflowing with people in plain dresses and suits. There stood her father and mother and Nathaniel’s as well. There was her brother Levi with his wife, Mary Yoder—now Mary Keim—Levi moving so vigorously when he tussled with his son, Nip, that no one could believe he had a wooden leg. Beside him was Ham, baptized into the Amish faith as Jacob, married to Lydia Fischer, and sporting a full beard that providentially masked the battle scars from Seminary Ridge on his jaw and throat. Joshua was close by with his crutches and the shining black Zook boots that came up to his knees. He pointed to a large white cake that took up most of a long table. Corinth and Lincoln shrieked and turned toward her.
Lyndel gasped. “They’re on their feet!”
Both had been in their grandmothers’ arms when Lyndel had left, both still crawling on the floor of the house and the grass in the yard. Now they stumbled and toddled toward their mother. Lyndel put her hands to her mouth.
“Oh, my heavens, Corinth King! Lincoln King! What a wonderful birthday present for your mother!”
“Lincoln started the day after you left,” said Nathaniel. “Corinth walked the day after she did.”
Lyndel jumped from the carriage, let her son and daughter fall down, one after the other, get up, and finally fall into her arms.
“Ma,” said Corinth happily.
She hugged and kissed him. “Oh, thank you. Corinth King, you are so strong and such a good walker.” Then she kissed Lincoln and held her close. “And you, my darling, I’ve never seen such a beautiful girl anywhere in my whole life. It looks like you’ve been on your feet for weeks.”
Lincoln held a slightly crumpled card out to her.
“What now? My heart is full already.”
Holding them to her she opened the card while everyone watched.
April 11, 1865
Dear Mrs. King:
For the assistance rendered at Petersburg that saved so many wounded who, I am convinced, would otherwise have perished, you have my heartfelt thanks and a colt sired by Cincinnati during an idle moment. My wife says horses seem to understand me. I hope this colt will understand you even if no one else is able to do so.
Yours truly,
Ulysses S. Grant
After reading Grant’s words about his gift Lyndel leaped up, a child in each arm, still clutching the note. “Where is he? Where is the colt?” She stared directly at her husband, who hadn’t moved from his seat in the carriage, and tried to look fierce. “You knew all about this and said nothing?”
Nathaniel grinned and raised his hand to heaven. “Birthdays are for surprises, not proclamations.”
“Come to the paddock behind our stable,” laughed her father. “Come, come, bring young Corinth and Lincoln. The colt is waiting for you.”
“Does it have a name, Papa?”
“Adam named the animals. You will have to name yours.”
Lyndel half-ran to the Keim stable across the road, carrying her two children, greeting everyone as she hurried past. Most of the crowd left the cake and the food to follow, several women draping the heavily laden tables with sheets to keep off the flies.
Smiling, Nathaniel climbed down from the carriage and headed for the stable. There was no one else around so he lifted a corner of a sheet, scooped some icing onto his finger, and placed it in his mouth. Lyndel’s shriek of delight upon seeing the colt, when it came, was so loud he was sure they could hear it all the way in the next county. He dropped the sheet back over her birthday cake and began to walk toward the Keim stables. He was certain she would have named the colt by the time he got there, and that it would be a good name that meant something—even if it might be different than one any other Amish horse had ever carried from the time their people had come to America.
EPILOGUE
Lyndel always ended her story with the naming of the colt “Galatia”—after what she considered was the cry of freedom in the Bible, the letter to the Galatians that Paul had written. Once her listeners left she sat and rocked while Nathaniel wound the clock and made tea. They would each drink a cup and he would tease her that she told the story differently each time—and that she always skipped something. What about how the other Amish communities looked down on her father for permitting soldiers to return to his church? How about the visit by Grant when he was President to see how Galatia, Cincinnati’s colt, was faring as a full-grown mare? Why didn’t she spend more time on their honeymoon in New York City? Then he would kiss the top of her head, play with a loose strand o
f hair that still had some red in it, and tell her to come to bed—he had many horses to shoe in the morning and needed a good night’s rest.
“In a minute,” she would always respond.
She didn’t tell the story often. The Amish community didn’t want to hear about the war, so the only ones who were interested were people from town or other counties.
All her children had listened to the story again and again. And every time Lyndel spoke about those years it stirred her own feelings and memories and lit a small fire inside.
When Nathaniel would leave her alone with the lamp afterward she would take down the plain wooden box from the mantel of the fireplace, a box that few noticed. Inside was his medal of honor, with its stars-and-stripes ribbon, its eagle, and its five-pointed star, which Abraham Lincoln had fastened to her husband’s chest after Gettysburg. There was a slip of paper that spoke of his courage and gallantry in rallying his men at Seminary Ridge. A large gold button from a Union general’s uniform also lay in the box. On its back was etched her name and the title Nurse of the Army of the Potomac. It had been presented to her after Petersburg. Another piece of paper had written on it the men of Nathaniel’s company and platoon. Of course there was the pass to the battle lines that was written in President Lincoln’s own hand. And underneath everything was a small envelope. Inside were the wedding rings Moses Gunnison had given them.
The Amish didn’t wear wedding bands of any kind. Once they returned to the Amish community in Elizabethtown, Nathaniel and Lyndel had removed them. But the rings meant too much to hide away forever. So Nathaniel had built the box from wood he’d journeyed to Belle Plain to retrieve—in the fall of 1865—part of the log cabin that had been their first home was still standing—and into the box went their keepsakes from a war that had changed their country and changed their own lives and souls.
