by Ward, Marsha
~~~
Rulon — February 13, 1862
Rulon found the inclement winter weather almost intolerable. Coming off a three-day picket assignment, he wiped down the bay horse as best he could under a makeshift shelter. After feeding his mount, he ran to his own shelter.
Ren was in the tent. Rulon entered to find him moving a chamber pot to catch a drip coming from the ridge.
“If we had tar, we could stop that leak,” Rulon said.
“If we had tar, it would still be raining and the stuff wouldn’t stick,” Ren answered.
Rulon had no response. He felt the shirt that three days ago he had laid out on his cot to dry. It remained damp along every seam. He wiped his nose and made a derisive sound. What did he expect? With the air so saturated, the moisture in the material had little chance to evaporate.
“Any word on Leoyd?” he asked Ren, who had sat down to shuffle through paperwork.
“He’s fortunate. The doc pulled him through the worst of the fever. That typhoid is nasty stuff. Doc is sending the captain home.”
Rulon stood up straight, shocked. “You don’t mean it.”
“I’m afraid so. Herring is in charge until he returns.” He shook his head, and added in a softer voice, “If he does.”
Rulon absorbed the somber news. He felt bad asking, but with the change of leadership, he felt he had to broach the subject uppermost in his mind. “Do you reckon I can get a furlough?”
Ren shook his head. “Herring won’t let you go with so many men laid up.”
“Mary is nearing her time. I’ve got to go home and be with her.”
“I’m sorry, Owen. We need every able-bodied man out there with their eyes open.”
“And rain running down their collars. It’s brutal detail. The Yankees aren’t leaving their cozy tents.”
“Spring will draw them out.”
“Spring,” Rulon said, and snorted. “I’m not sure I believe in it anymore.”
A few days later, Rulon slogged through eighteen-inch deep mud to saddle his horse for another three days on duty away from camp. He spent twenty-four hours as a vidette, mounted almost all that time and hidden in a copse of trees keeping watch on a Yankee camp. For hours he shivered and wished for the fire he knew General Stuart had forbidden. Of course he knew a fire was impossible so close to the enemy, but the cold did suck the soul out of a man.
He worried about Mary. Centreville seemed so far away from Mount Jackson. He worried about catching cold and dying before he could see her again. He worried that the mumps would return.
After he returned from the patrol, he worried over how to impart to his wife the devastating news that greeted him. Captain Yancey had succumbed to the typhoid fever. He shouldn’t tell her. She would be concerned about him catching the fever. At long last, he kept his explanation of the situation brief, and sent Mary his wishes for every good prospect in her coming ordeal.
After he sealed and posted the letter, he worried that he couldn’t recall if he had used the word “ordeal.” He should have been more positive, giving her his assurances that she had nothing to fear. After all, his mother had birthed ten children without dying. No, it was better that he hadn’t talked any more on that subject. His mention of the captain’s death was enough for her to deal with.
~~~
Mary — February 19, 1862
On a chilly day in February, Mary sat at the dinner table at noon, more for appearances than to actually take nourishment. She was so large in the belly that the mere thought of trying to fit food in with the child gave her qualms of anxiety. When would this torture be over? She waddled when she walked. Her arched back ached. Every little occurrence irritated her. A great sense of heaviness lay upon her soul, and she had not heard from Rulon for longer than she cared to think about.
Since entering what Mama had called “confinement” a few weeks ago, she had naturally not been to church services. Mama had tried to bring Mr. Moore around. Mary refused to see him, begging off with so much force that her mother had given up trying to persuade her that she must needs prepare her immortal soul for her coming journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. She could scarcely stand to be in the company of family members. Entertaining a visitor, even the minister, was more than she could support. Her only desire was to build a cozy nest in her bedroom and retreat into it.
“Mama, Mary won’t eat,” Ida complained.
Her mother turned to Mary and gave her the eye. “Mistress Mary, your babe will not be strong if you neglect your duty. Eat the pumpkin, at least. Your sister is quite proud of her dish.”
Mary sighed. Ida had a tiresome streak that strained her forbearance. “I will make an attempt,” she said, and took one bite of the mushy vegetable. Then she felt a heavy flow of liquid pass from between the juncture of her lower limbs. Alarmed, she choked, sputtered until the pumpkin lay upon and beside her plate, and cried out, “Fetch the doctor. Something has gone wrong.”
A spasm crushed her stomach, and she bent as far forward as she could to contain it. “Oh Lordy, I’m dying,” she gasped when she could breathe.
“Good heavens, daughter, what is amiss?” asked her father.
By this time, Mary was in the throes of another cramp, and could only shake her head. She had somehow pushed back from the table, but without arising. Looking down, she spied a stain on the carpet that looked vaguely pink. Could she have commenced to bleed? Blood had more of a crimson hue. What had rushed out of her body?
She felt herself swaying, and her father was there, stopping her from falling.
“Ida, go bring the doctor,” he commanded.
The next thing Mary knew, she was ensconced on her bed, and Sylvia was bathing her face with a cold cloth. Her dress felt odd, and she glanced at the skirt to discover that it clung damply to her limbs. Perhaps she had lost control of her bodily process. No, there was none of the stink of that fluid in the room. Her instinct told her it was appropriate to be lying upon her bed, but she didn’t want the dress to soak the bedclothes, and she begged Sylvia to help her remove it.
After that task had been accomplished, her focus narrowed to one thing, the cramping in her belly that caused her such pain and forced her to groan and shriek in terror. The loss of self-control frightened her. She had never been given to vapors and screaming fits. Why was her throat giving voice to all manner of sounds? Her belly again contracted in a mighty spasm and she let loose a horrid moan. Bending forward, she cradled the offending portion of her body with hands and arms that were powerless to rip the agony away. Was this the dreaded childbirth?
“Yes,” said the doctor when he arrived an hour later and had persuaded her that he must give her an examination or he might pronounce an incorrect diagnosis. When he had finished, his conclusion was that she was indeed laboring to bring forth her child. He would send for Granny Pankwurst, the midwife, to attend her. Did she want him to notify Mrs. Julia Owen to be present?
Mrs. Owen? Rulon’s mother? Yes, yes, she nodded, over and over, until the doctor left the room. Another agonizing moment gripped her. She screamed. She seemed to make an outcry each time a spasm came. Where was her mother’s stoicism, the tightly gritted teeth that permitted no utterance? She knew herself to be a failure, an unworthy daughter who had no self-dignity or control.
“Mama, Mama,” Mary keened when her mother came in and sat beside the bed, tight-lipped and unsmiling. “Mama,” she sobbed when she went away to suckle her new child.
She craved a tender touch, a soothing hand upon her sweat-beaded brow, but she knew there would be no such approving gestures from her mother. She had done the unthinkable deed in this very room, and was thus to be punished for marrying, for breeding, for having an absent husband.
Ida came into the room what must have been hours later, bringing Granny Pankwurst. Just then Mary let loose an ear-piercing wail, and the girl covered her ears and hid in the corner by the door.
“Here now,” said the midwife. “None of that ca
terwauling noise around when I deliver my babies.”
Her babies? Mary didn’t understand. This was Rulon’s baby, her baby. She was the one undergoing this terrible pain to give birth. She wanted to protest, but she had no energy.
Then the woman demanded that she stand and stride about the room. What did she mean? As it was, Mary could scarcely bear to lie here now. How could she be expected to walk? But walk she did, half carried between the wizened old woman and a protesting Ida: shuffling, doubling over, clutching herself when the pains returned and she sank to her knees in agony.
When she wanted to sit, the midwife forbade it. When she panted, the midwife told her to stop, to breathe naturally. She wanted to shout at her, to send her from the room, but she had no energy.
Then the woman told her to get onto the bed, which was what she had wanted to do all the while she had been forced to ambulate. But once she had crawled upon it, belly pressing deep into the mattress, the woman pushed her over onto her back. She then sent Ida from the room, which surely pleased her craven sister. Oh horror! The midwife wanted to inspect the place only Rulon and the doctor had ever viewed.
The midwife pawed at her knees. Mary resisted. The woman slapped her upon one lower limb. Mary cried out at the ignominy. She tried to hold her limbs together, but she had no energy, and the woman succeeded in violating the privacy of her sanctuary.
“Rulon!” she wailed, guilt flooding her senses. She had allowed an invasion into the intimate place they had shared. The doctor had been persuasive of the need; this detestable woman had forced her to give way to her will. But where was Rulon? Her mind ceased to give her answers for a time, then she remembered that he was at war, off where lewd women followed the soldier camps to ply a trade both ancient and sordid. Was Rulon partaking of their filthiness? He should be here, beside her as she offered up the gift of a child to him from her very loins.
As the woman probed between her limbs, Mary sobbed at the robbery of both her dignity and her guardianship. Had Rulon matched her betrayal with one of his own? How could she know? He surely would not tell her if he had broken his vows. She whimpered his name in despair.
The midwife mocked her. “Leave off hollering for your man. He ain’t nowhere around.”
Yes, the fact was that he was nowhere around. Rulon could be dead and buried, for all she knew. Was this child to have no father? Would she die from shame if this perverse woman kept peering between her limbs? If she did, the child would die within her, having no chance to come forth into the world.
The interminable pain came again, wearing her out, scouring her body until she had no bones to bear her up.
The midwife finished her probing and left the room, carrying away the only light. Mary sensed that she was alone. Was she dying, then? Had the woman abandoned her? Another spasm beset her. Rulon, can having a child be worth this pain?
A cool hand touched her brow. She started, unaware that anyone had entered the room. A soft voice assured her, “Mary. You’re doin’ fine, girl. The babe will arrive soon.”
Mother Owen. She had come. Would she be able to remove this awful burden of pain?
But no. A soothing voice and a cooling hand were all she could offer, and Mary’s disappointment ran bone deep.
No one could save her. She must go through this all alone. She alone could enter the Valley of the Shadow of Death. What outcome would she find in that dismal place? Would she cheat Death, or would it cheat her? Her and Rulon? Her and Rulon and the babe?
Finally, the wicked old woman returned, elbowing Julia Owen quite cruelly, Mary thought, but her mother-in-law gave no protest. She simply sat at Mary’s head and spoke comforting words.
“Hold on to my hand, Mary. Listen careful and do as the midwife tells you.”
Mary could do no more than nod as the sweeping, all-encompassing torment came again.
Later, Mother Owen said, “Allow me to rub your neck, girl. Your shoulders have had quite a workout, bending and stretching so.”
The tender fingers brought momentary relief before the onslaught of the next wave of affliction.
Then, when Mary was grunting and panting and holding apart her own limbs, a great despair upon her, Mother Owen whispered urgently, “It will soon be finished. Push on that babe. Push for your life, girl.”
Some other creature cried out, high-pitched and protesting, wailing more robustly than she could find energy to do.
“A boy child,” stated a self-satisfied voice.
Mary wanted only to sink into a mass of jelly and limp skin and cease to labor. She had worked so hard, harder than she ever had in her life up to this time. Her belly hurt from straining. Her back bore unremitting pain. Her special part burned as though torn. Her breasts ached from tension. Her arms yearned to hold the caterwauling creature she knew was Rulon’s son. Her son. Their son.
~~~
Mary watched the midwife pack up her belongings and leave the room. Sweet relief enveloped her. She would never see that woman again, if she could possibly help it.
“Here is your babe,” Mother Owen said, and lay the sleeping infant, who she had wrapped in a soft blanket, in Mary’s arms. “What name will you put on him?”
Cradling her son, Mary crooned to him, “Roddy, sweet little Roddy, my precious boy.” She undid the covers enough to check something and sighed with satisfaction. “Ten wee fingers. Ten wee toes. A miniature likeness of your papa.”
“Roddy, then?”
“Roderick Rulon Owen, but he is so tiny. Roddy will do for now.”
Mother Owen smiled and resumed her seat in the shadow beside the bed.
Mama bustled into the room, carrying the baby Eliza. “Now that the excitement has ceased, let me look at little Randolph. I suppose you will do him the indignity of shortening his name to Randy?”
“No, Mama. His short name will be Roddy. His long name is Roderick.”
“Roderick! You want to name him after that strutting rooster of a man?”
“Good morning, Amanda.”
“Julia!”
Mary looked at Mother Owen, expecting some sort of outburst in defense of her husband. She herself certainly felt offense at her mother’s characterization of the man. She liked Father Owen.
“He’s not such a bad sort,” Mother Owen said, a little smile quivering at the corner of her mouth.
“I beg your pardon. I did not see you there, and meant no offense to you.”
“You meant every offense to Mr. Owen,” she rejoined, but in a mild tone.
Mama turned back to stare at Mary. “I prefer the name Randolph, in honor of your father.”
Mary took a deep breath and steeled her spine for the encounter. “He is named Roderick, to give honor to my husband’s father. The next boy can bear Papa’s name.”
“I must protest. You live in your father’s house.”
“Mama, I will not be dissuaded. Mother Owen, please go to the minister to record the name as I have said it to you.”
“You cannot dishonor your father.”
“Amanda,” Mother Owen said, her voice indicating rising ire. “Leave the girl be. You did not bring the child into the light. She did the job, and a fine job it was.”
Mama rounded upon Mother Owen. “She herself is a child, play-acting at being a wife. Now she pretends to be a mother, as well? I won’t have it.”
Mother Owen’s eyebrows went up. She patted Mary’s shoulder. “Amanda, we’ve been friends for many a year. I cannot speak any plainer than this. Mary is a wife, woman, and mother. She ain’t acting at it. She earned the right to name her own babe with her labor and blood. If you can’t reckon with the broad fact of it, I’ll move her and the boy out to the place.”
“You would not.”
“She bears the Owen name. By rights, she should be with us. Mary stayed here because she wanted to sooth your feelin’s, so Rulon told me. She’s welcome on the Owen farm.”
Mary watched as the starch went out of her mother’s spine. She sagged against t
he chest of drawers, her face going pale. At length, she said in a strained voice. “I may have spoke out without thinkin’. Mary, I bear you no ill will. Name the boy as you please. Don’t leave us.”
“Mama.” Mary couldn’t say more for the lump in her throat. She had never seen such a transformation.
“That’s sensible, Amanda. It’s high time you give the girl the affection you’ve been withholding these long months, heaping on her head your disapproval of my son.”
“It’s not himself—”
“I reckon. You didn’t cotton to his haste. It was better that they married than take other paths.” Her eyes softened. “They had so little time together, Amanda. Mayhap it’s all they get.”
“No!” Mary felt her throat go raw. The two women turned to her, distress written across their countenances. Realizing they thought she had not faced reality, she added, “Don’t speak of it now. Don’t haunt my wee boy’s dreams with that sad vision.”
They looked at each other, her mother, Rulon’s mother. Eliza began to wail. Roddy woke up and whimpered. “Let us be reconciled,” Mary begged, bouncing the boy gently.
Mama extended her hand toward Mother Owen, who took it and gave it a squeeze.
“We will say no more of this,” said Mother Owen. “We will be good Christian neighbors. This upset in our country can’t last forever. Rulon will come home and make his family complete. At that time, we all must leave the young’uns be.”
“I will say no more, “Mama said.
Mother Owen gave a slight nod. “See that you keep your resolve.”
Mary sensed the balance shifting in the room. What had she just experienced? Mother Owen had gained the upper hand, and Mama had willingly allowed it.
“Mary,” Mother Owen said softly, turning toward her, “I’ll go see Mr. Moore now. It will be as you wish.”
~~~
Not much time had elapsed after Mother Owen left that the wee babe awoke and began to sniffle. Then he started to cry, a long wail at first, then robust and alarming demands for attention.
