by Ward, Marsha
“The scoundrel,” he muttered. Brownie, a war horse?
She wrote that both Mistress Mary and her mother, Mrs. Hilbrands, were awaiting a happy event, and that James was overseeing the crops as well as the horses, due to Peter’s hasty departure. She mentioned that his father had chafed sorely at delays in raising his cavalry company that caused him to miss the action at Manassas Junction, but that he and his troopers finally rode off, much to his satisfaction.
Ben imagined how sad that parting must have made Ma feel, even though there was not a hint of reproach against his father in her words. He knew she was strong, but she surely drew part of that strength from Pa. They had always been so close-knit, not like squabbling couples he’d seen in Mount Jackson.
Finally, Ma urged him to remember his prayers and to seek out church services as often as he could, and said that she bore him great affection. She signed it “your mother, Julia Helm Owen.” A line from Marie had been added at the bottom of the paper, then the letter was finished.
Ben tucked the sheet back into the envelope, rose to put it into his knapsack, then glanced at the other letter lying on the cot.
The letter marked with E.R.A.
The letter he was sure had come from Ella Ruth.
The letter he should chuck into the cook fire.
He picked it up, and almost turned toward the tent flap to follow thought with deed, but knew it would be cruel of him to fail to acknowledge her efforts, whatever they might have produced in the way of words.
Sighing and steeling himself against further heart-break by way of Miss Ella Ruth Allen, he sat and opened the envelope.
Glancing down the page, he spotted imperfections, smudges in the ink. He brought the paper close to his face to puzzle out the cause. Oh lordy, those were tear splotches.
He dropped his hands to his lap. Ella Ruth crying? Pouting, giggling, feigning anger, arching her eyebrows. He was familiar with all those wiles. He had never seen her in tears.
After a moment spent in reflecting on their last harsh encounter, Ben lifted the letter and began to read.
Benjamin,
Many a time you have chided me for coming late to an appointment. It is true. I have an intolerable habit of running behind times in all my endeavors in life.
So too, am I late in realizing the truth of what you tried so expressively to tell me. We are at war. Men must fight for their country else their liberty be taken from them. You have gone upon that endeavor.
Oh Ben. I have done wrong. I have taken your trust and love and ground them to pieces beneath my foolish heel. I know this now, and I have come to acknowledge this at a later date than gentility demands.
My heart is broken at the grievous hurt I caused you. I am contrite. I scourge my spirit daily at remembering my unwise action and unreasonable pride. I was lost in impossible dreams that cannot, and should not, be included in my daily walk.
Can you find it in your generous soul to forgive me? I cannot expect that you will do so, but I am compelled to ask this boon of you. I hope that I may ever call myself your friend, however imprudent I have been.
Ella Ruth /
From a partial stroke of her pen at the conclusion of her signature, Ben surmised that she had nearly added her surname, then decided against it. This was an intimate apology, not a formal one. He held his breath, assessing what that could mean.
Was she begging to resume their friendship at the point to which it had arrived? That was unclear. Perhaps she only felt a good dollop of remorse and wished to be Christian friends. She seemed to be suffering under a great weight, at the very least, and wished his forgiveness to get out from under it.
He expelled the breath. Her petition required an answer. He was too wrung out at the moment to reply. It would have to wait for another day, and for a much clearer head than the one he possessed at this time.
Ella Ruth. The golden girl he had hoped to woo and win. He recalled his ultimatum. He had offered her his heart and his life, then said, “But you must take them now, or you must leave them alone.”
She had chosen in haste, and now she wanted to repent of throwing him over. His brain refused to hand him a fitting response. Did he want the girl back, or was he done with her?
A few moments spent in a muddle did him no good, but the call of the bugle broke him free of the need to make an instant decision. He put the letter away and sprinted to do his duty.
~~~
Rulon — September 24, 1861
Rulon continued to write in his mumps journal, but now he made notes about things he experienced, some of which he would share with Mary in his letters.
On September 12, he noted that the regiment had been reorganized that day. The extra companies that had been added over time were transferred to other regiments and ten companies remained. The Harrisonburg Cavalry troop was kept, and continued with the designation of Company “I”.
Later that month, a greater change came about when the regimental commander, Colonel J. E. B. Stuart, ascended to the rank of brigadier general and rose to command of the brigade.
He discussed the changes with Ren and Owen later that day over supper.
“Where is Colonel Jones from?” he asked about their new commander.
Owen answered. “He brought in the Mounted Rifles, Company ‘L,’ from Washington County. My sister married a fellow from Abington, where they raised the company. He has a crooked leg.”
“The colonel?”
“No. My sister’s husband. He couldn’t get into the fight on account of the leg.”
“Ah.”
Ren spoke up. “I’m going to miss those Company ‘K’ fellows from Rockingham County. It was comforting to fight alongside folks we knew.”
“They have spunk, I will say,” Rulon said, nodding. “Any kin of yours in that group?”
“No, but their captain is brother to ours. I reckon it will be hard on them to be separated.”
“Why do they call the colonel ‘Grumble’ Jones?” Rulon asked.
“I hear tell it is because of his irritable nature,” Ren replied, and got to his feet. “We’d best keep our behavior on the impeccable side. Who is on guard duty tonight?”
Owen answered. “I’m your boy.”
“Finish up and see to it,” Ren said, and strode away.
~~~
Rod — September 27, 1861
The stars must finally have aligned for Rod Owen, for in late September, when the breezes blew chill and the sun shone less each day, he came upon a young cavalryman with his back turned to him who was grooming the stolen horse Brownie.
“Son?” Rod queried, not sure this strapping lad was his offspring, but certain that the horse was his.
The boy pivoted and faced him. “Pa?” he said, his voice a bit defensive.
“My boy.” A wash of relief caused Rod to abandon any pre-conceived plan to harangue Peter for his misdeeds. He opened his arms to embrace him, and Peter met him in like fashion.
“Pa,” Peter said when they had broken the embrace. “I reckon it was wrong of me to take Ben’s horse, although he wasn’t goin’ to use it for a while. I had the need. I figured you would come to know that, in time.”
“You should have waited for your birthday before you enlisted, son. Surely there is war enough that it would have lasted until then.”
“I didn’t want to lose my chance.”
“You grieved your ma.”
Peter hung his head for a moment. When he raised it, he said, “I reckon that’s true. I did write an apology to her. Your name was on the letter, as well. I had half a notion you would linger a mite longer at home, instead of leaving Ma to her own devices.”
Rod felt a moment of ire at the hint of reproach his son had cast upon him at leaving his wife. It was true. He had left Julia to carry on, but was it not expected of an honorable man that he would defend his family and his country? There were capable boys at home to give her every aid. Instead of answering the charge, he turned the topic. “I told
your ma I would get you sent home for being underage.”
“No. Don’t do that.” Peter yanked up his shirt, unbuttoned his undershirt, pulled it aside, and revealed a lengthy red scar from which the scab had already fallen. “I’ve been bloodied in battle. I won’t leave the defense of my land to lesser men.”
“I’m sure a word to your captain—”
“He knows my age, Pa. He don’t care. He said I was a valiant fighter and he wished he had a dozen men like me under his command.” Under the truculent manner, Peter’s face shone with an expression of satisfaction.
“Hmm,” Rod said. “I didn’t know about your injury.”
“Ma knows of it. I wrote in the letter that it was a trifle.”
“I’m sure you did.” He wondered what argument was left to him with the boy. Clearly he had won the good opinion of his company commander. Peter’s reasons for coming into the cavalry were much the same as his own—the defense of family and country, mixed with a youthful exuberance he himself now lacked.
“I ain’t goin’ home until the fight is won,” Peter said, setting his jaw.
“You always were a stubborn lad,” Rod said. “Much like me, unfortunately. If you give me your word to be cautious in the face of the enemy, I won’t press the matter.”
“Cautious? I can’t promise that, Pa. I can promise to remember my mother and sisters, and to defend their honor with all my body and soul. That’s all I can promise.”
Rod’s sigh lasted for several seconds, it seemed, all the breath leaving his body as though in terrible resignation. The boy would not be moved. As his father, his emotions warred in his breast. Love. Concern. Pride for the man his son had become in a few short weeks.
Life was a muddle of a knot, and he couldn’t always make out the right way to cut through it. Should he leave the boy alone? If he let the issue die of natural causes, what was he to tell Julia?
He could only say he had found the boy, and determined that the war situation was desperate enough that the army needed Peter more than the farm and his kin did. He knew that was the truth of the matter, even as his heart urged him to carry the boy home to his mama, where he would be safe from harm.
At length, Rod said, “I reckon that’s all I can ask.”
~~~
Mary — October 31, 1861
Mary held her belly and bent double, gasping at the force of the kick the creature inside her had dealt. Surely this child was a boy. No female could be so unruly.
She straightened with care, then grasped the supportive back of the chair beside her. Two weeks gone since she had last written to Rulon, and no letter had come back in that time. Was he even alive? Perhaps he was too busy to think of her. Or... perhaps those cruel words Mama had flung at her were true, especially with the seemingly confirming whispers she had heard of “camp followers” setting up tents— No! Those boys joking and laughing outside the store, what did they know? She wouldn’t pay heed to them. She couldn’t.
But the black thoughts continued. Rulon had needs. What had he called them? She searched through her swirling mind to remember their wedding day. Lustful yearnings. Yes. Very powerful yearnings. The two of them had spent a good deal of time assuaging his yearnings before their honeymoon days were spent. How could he set those urges aside now?
Another strong message from her babe demanded her attention, and for the moment, her body’s needs prevailed over thoughts about Rulon’s.
When the child had calmed himself, Mary thought about Rulon again. How could she turn his thoughts to her? How could she make him recall her attempt to brand him with the remembrance of her bared body pressed against him in the light of day? What a foolish gesture, she thought. A vain and feeble bid to claim his affection forever. Men’s thoughts wandered. She had heard of a woman whose husband had strayed quite publicly, shaming the woman to such an extent that she had taken sufficient poison to end her pain. That had caused a terrible scandal. The man had buried his wife and fled north, taking his paramour with him, but leaving three poor children orphaned and at the mercy of relations.
Lust is a vicious drive, she tortured herself. She envisioned Rulon in the arms of a painted harlot, and cried out in despair. How could she return his thoughts, his allegiance to her? Had he not taken vows? Did he not give them uppermost value in his life?
She paced the room, their room, where he had whispered words of affection as he took her body beneath his own, entangling her in his needs, opening her to lustful emotions of her own as he spilled his seed within her. She paused to endure another attack from the babe. Rulon had planted this child that hurt her so sorely. When the kicking had passed, she thought, I have given you body and soul, husband. What more must I do to ensure your fidelity?
She spied a likeness of her parents that hung against the wall. Should she have a likeness made, wear a low-cut dress to entice him into remembering their nights of passion together? She had nothing of the sort in her wardrobe. Perhaps that would have an opposite effect, and drive him to seek relief. Should she turn in profile, to show him an outline of what he had left behind? She bowed in shame at the thought of revealing her condition so blatantly to a photograph maker. She sighed, then straightened and made a decision. She would have a likeness made of her face and hope it would be sweet and enchanting enough to give him thoughts of home and respite from battle.
The child brushed gently against her insides, giving her what she took as approval. Yes. She must be the sweet wife Rulon claimed to love, and show him that side of her in the likeness she would send. Having settled her mind on a course of action gave her the first peace she had felt for some time, and she went to the door with a new sense of resolve.
Chapter 16
Ben — November 4, 1861
On November 4th, General Jackson addressed his brigade. Ben stood on a hill with the rest of the troops, trying to keep his emotions in check. Old Jack, who now held the name Stonewall Jackson, was headed for the Shenandoah Valley to take commend there, but the brigade that also bore the nickname would hold the hard-won line before Washington.
The General said he was not making a speech, but was there to bid them farewell. After making more speech than Ben had ever heard from him, he stood in his stirrups and exclaimed, “In the Army of the Shenandoah you were the First Brigade, in the Army of the Potomac you were the First Brigade, in the 2d Corps of this army you are the First Brigade....”
Ben swallowed down the lump in his throat as the General went on.
“You are the First Brigade in the affections of your general, and I hope by your future deeds and bearing you will be handed down to posterity as the First Brigade in this, our second war of independence. Farewell!”
The hush extended for a moment only, then the men around him raised cheer after cheer. Ben joined in until his throat felt raw. General Jackson briefly waved farewell and rode away at a gallop.
The man next to Ben groaned. “I wish I was a-goin’ with him,” he said. “I’d cotton to seein’ my Sara right about now.”
Ben turned to him and nodded, remembering the strange letter he had received a few weeks ago from Miss Ella Ruth Allen. He’d done nothing about it. What was there to do? Not knowing what the girl expected of him, he’d put it away and forgotten it.
Now the pangs of homesickness hit him like the concussion from a cannon. He’d wanted a future with Ella Ruth, but now his future lay with fellows like the man beside him, Tom something. He searched his memory. Tom Grace. He was in the company from Hardy County.
He went back to camp, disheartened by the departure of the general he had come to respect. The rest of his company appeared to be out of humor, as well, so he decided to stay out of the way and write a letter home.
Instead of “Dear Ma,” he stared at the words “Dear Miss Allen.” No. He had no idea what to say to Ella Ruth. He thought about crumpling the sheet, but paper was in short supply in camp. Perhaps he would figure out what to say to the girl at some future day, so he put the paper back in
his rucksack and pulled out another piece to write to Ma.
~~~
Mary — November 5, 1861
Mary entered the front door of the house, having taken the morning to go to the photographer’s studio to have her likeness made to send to Rulon. She had not even had time to close the door when Ida’s voice came down the stairs in a screech.
“Mama needs you. Come here at once!”
Mary’s warm sense of worth and contentment vanished in the instant. What could be wrong with Mama? She hastily shed and hung her wrap, and trudged up the steps.
The second floor was a complete hub-bub. Her sisters yelled or wrung their hands, according to their nature. Mary followed the loudest noise, which came from her parents’ room. Ida flapped about, urging their mother not to worry, that Mary would arrive soon. Mama lay on the bedspread, fully clothed, gritting her teeth through some paroxysm of pain, her eyes tightly closed and her face set.
Well, she was here now, and what was she supposed to do about this unusual situation? Had Mama fallen? Broken a limb?
Mama’s fingers gripped the chenille bed covering. Her head quivered.
Mary gazed at the mounded fabric covering her mother’s abdomen, and was astounded to see it move of its own accord; a sort of cramping or squeezing seemed to be taking place.
Then the idea of what was occurring hit Mary like a slap upon the side of her head. Mama was in the throes of giving birth to her baby. What was she to do about it? She had not had the same experience yet, and could not imagine herself dealing with the event.
She went to the side of the bed, stooped and took Mama’s hand, then asked, “What arrangements have you made? Who is to attend you?”
“Char— Mrs. Bingham,” Mama gasped. “Send Ida.” She panted, worn out from such a small bit of talk. “Hurry!” Her voice came out low and strained, a harsh gargle.
Mary almost drew back at the venom in the command. Instead, she swallowed and looked at Ida. “You heard her. Make haste.”
