Gone for a Soldier

by Ward, Marsha

  Shivering, she stood on tiptoe, trying to regularize her breathing. Had it been a rat? Lula had complained of vermin in the storeroom, and now she was headed right there.

  It’s only a small creature, she told herself. One of God’s creatures, so it must have a purpose. Still, she shivered almost uncontrollably. She dearly wanted to fly up the stairs and retreat to her bed, but that would not do. She had to get paper if she were to preserve Ben’s precious words.

  Coaxing herself forward, step by step, she made it into the kitchen proper and held her light aloft to make sure she found her way to the storeroom without mishap.

  Then, as quickly as she could, she pulled open the door, searched for the parcel paper, found it, ripped off a lengthy piece, and hurried back up to her room in such a rush that she didn’t even care if the stair tread made a noise.

  She stood with her back against the closed and locked door, breathing, breathing, breathing, until her heart and respirations returned to normal. Then she sat and carefully began the task of transcribing Ben’s words.

  She had no idea of the time when she finished the task with the first page, but it was far too late to begin her puzzle work for the second sheet of the letter. Reluctantly, she hid all her tools and the paper away underneath her shoes in the back corner of her wardrobe, changed into her nightdress, blew out the candle, and slipped into bed.

  ~~~

  Ella Ruth — March 17, 1862

  The next night, after meticulous labor had resulted in Ella Ruth reading and preserving the sweet words found on the second sheet of Ben’s letter, she sat up from a dead sleep. Ben mustn’t send letters here, she thought. Poppa will only destroy them.

  She lay back down on her pillow, worry creasing her forehead as her eyebrows pinched together. She hadn’t ever received a letter before, and didn’t know how delivery was accomplished. Poppa knew, but she could hardly ask him about the subject. Momma would suspect something strange was in the air if Ella Ruth were to approach her. Who could she ask about letters?

  Mrs. Julia Owen would know, but Ella Ruth still had a nervous fascination with the mother of her Ben. She imagined that such an accomplished woman would take no notice of her problem. But perhaps the other Mrs. Owen would.

  She thought about that for a while. She hadn’t seen Mistress Mary in the store for ever so long, but then, perhaps it was time for her confinement. She was having a child. Rulon Owen’s child.

  Ella Ruth thought about how it would be if she were carrying Ben’s child, and felt an odd tingle in the pit of her stomach. Would she ever get the opportunity? This horrible war threw such complications into her life. Would she never be able to marry Ben, join with him in conjugal bliss, bear him a child?

  She wanted to weep at the thought of never. That was not acceptable to her. She would begin prayers every night and every morning to ensure that Ben returned to her. Fervent prayers. God would surely heed prayers offered with all the fervor of which she was capable.

  But first, she must think of a way to ensure that their courtship by correspondence, if such it had to be, was not interrupted by her father’s heavy hand.

  She went to sleep with that problem foremost in her thoughts, trusting that her brain would arrive at a solution by morning.

  When Ella Ruth awoke at daybreak, she determined to go to the store and see about Mistress Mary’s situation. Perhaps she had given birth by now and would return soon. If not, perhaps one of her sisters would be amenable to the idea of keeping letters aside for her. Mrs. Hilbrands occasionally took a turn behind the counter, but Ella Ruth discarded the notion of approaching her. She seemed... prickly. Certainly not welcoming of unorthodox ideas.

  After breakfast, Ella Ruth had another problem. How was she to get to the store? Poppa had not announced plans to go anywhere today, so she couldn’t conjure an excuse to accompany him to town. Momma wasn’t thinking of going out. Merlin never took the buggy if he was off to see a friend.

  She wandered into the kitchen to see if the cook Sadie needed supplies, but found no answers from that quarter. Sadie was occupied with making the noon meal. As she took a jar of applesauce from the storeroom shelf, she shrugged off Ella Ruth’s suggestion that she might need to go shopping. She opened the jar with a flourish as Ella Ruth’s mouth began to water at the smell of the ham in the oven. With no options left, she removed herself from the kitchen.

  Fuss and feathers! How am I to get to Mount Jackson?

  As she sat in the parlor, idly flipping through a year-old copy of a magazine of ladies’ fashions from New York, an idea came into her head. It was a rather unheard-of concept, but it would not leave her, so she let it free and examined it.

  She could walk.

  She swallowed.

  Walk?

  She had never walked the distance from her home to Mount Jackson, but surely it could be done. She had seen darkies and farm lads trudging along the road when she had passed by in the buggy, thinking nothing of their feat. Surely it wasn’t difficult to put one foot in front of another and traverse a mile or two, even three. She enjoyed robust health, and had no impairment to her limbs. So what if the way was dusty? She could accomplish her objective with a little persistence. Indeed, she must.

  Another thought came to her. What if Mary, or her sister, if it came to that, required coaxing to come to an agreement? She only had enough coins to post a note to Ben if she could make arrangements. What else did she have that she could use to sweeten her request?

  A jar of applesauce.

  Ella Ruth threw down the magazine and rose, excited that her problem was melting away after she had put so much mental energy into solving it. She would not let Poppa’s attitude defeat her, now that Ben had come around to the point to responding to her letters. Ben loved her. She knew it. Nothing must become an obstacle to seeing their tenuously renewed friendship blossom into the full flower of courtship.

  She hurried toward the kitchen, then slowed her pace so the cook would not become suspicious of her motives. She would say she had come for a tumbler of water. Yes, that was reasonable.

  She entered the warm room and surveyed it.

  Sadie had her head and arms extended toward the oven, preparing to remove the ham. She saw Ella Ruth and frowned. “What you doin’ back in my kitchen, child? I won’t feed you nothin’ this close to dinner.”

  “Pay me no mind. Sadie. I’m parched, so I’ve come for a drink of water.”

  The cook cast a skeptical eye at Ella Ruth, then said, “Humph,” and turned her back to complete her task.

  Ella Ruth walked to the storeroom for a tumbler and removed a jar of applesauce from the shelf as well. She concealed the jar in the folds of her skirt, quickly filled the glass with water and drank it, then hurried out of the room.

  She hid the applesauce in her room, knowing it was too close to the noon meal to leave. It would be counted odd if she did not show up.

  When the bell sounded, she went downstairs and ate as fast as she could without drawing undue attention to herself. Unfortunately, she could not think of an excuse for leaving the table early, and had to sit, enduring the family small talk until her mother rose, the signal that everyone was dismissed to go about their activities.

  Ella Ruth retrieved the applesauce, professed the desire to take a turn around the garden to see if anything had sprouted yet, and fled.

  She crossed the river on a footbridge her brother had built last summer, climbed out of the bottom to the Valley Pike, and began her journey. After walking down the side of the pike for what seemed like forever, Ella Ruth looked behind her and realized that she wasn’t all that far from home. The road stretched endlessly before her, white in the sunlight. The jar of applesauce she clutched felt like an andiron at the end of her arm. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a basket?

  She paused to catch her breath opposite the lane that led to the Owen farm, and ease her toes within her shoes. Was that dull pain from a blister rising?

  She began to wonder if he
r plan had merit. What if she couldn’t arrive in town before the store closed? She inhaled resolutely and set off once more, ignoring the pinching of her shoes. She had to achieve her goal.

  Resting again sometime later, Ella Ruth wished she had thought to bring a basket and a container of water. Her mouth felt dry as the dust that covered her skirt and bodice. She was sure now that she had not one, but several blisters on her feet. She might make it to town and interview Mary or one of her sisters, but how was she to make it home again?

  What would Ben do? Silly girl, Ben would have a horse or a wagon to travel this great distance.

  She set her mouth in a grim line. She would walk until she reached the next fence post, and then go on to the next one. Accordingly, she began to walk, limping, but making progress along the pasture fence bordering the road.

  After an interval of halting advancement that sapped her strength to the very limits of her constitution, Ella Ruth arrived in Mount Jackson. She dusted her dress, straightened her aching back, and walked with as much dignity as she could muster on blister-ravaged feet down the street toward the store.

  She entered, then felt like crying when she espied Mrs. Hilbrands at the counter. Was all her labor for naught? She lingered beside the door, mastering her emotion before she decided what to do. A baby wailed from a back room. Was Mistress Mary here after all?

  Mrs. Hilbrands made a resigned face and left the counter. She encountered one of her daughters coming out of the room, but it wasn’t Mary. It was the next one, a selfish twit named Ida.

  Ella Ruth caught a fragment of the girl’s side of the conversation, something expressing dissatisfaction with tending the child and a question of when Mary was going to return to help with the work.

  “Perhaps next week,” the mother said curtly, and hurried to take care of the youngest offspring.

  Ella Ruth turned and left the store. Mary lived at the Hilbrands’ home, and must be there now. That was just around the block, and she hurried as fast as she could to get there, glad of the turn of events. Mary was much easier to talk to than the other ladies of the family. She could make a social visit of the occasion and still achieve her end.

  One of Mary’s younger sisters conducted her upstairs into Mary’s room, where Ella Ruth cooed at the baby, and presented the jar of sauce. After what she adjudged was a decent period, she asked Mary if she would accommodate her desire to receive mail at the store.

  “Brother Ben has replied to you, then?” Mary asked, a conspiratorial smile creeping onto her face.

  “He has. But Poppa— My father is still opposed to our friendship.” She hung her head. “I’ve been put to a great deal of trouble to rescue his letter from the trash.”

  “Oh my. Were you obliged to iron out the creases?”

  “Oh Mary, if it were only so easy as that! I had to piece together the fragments after Poppa tore it to bits.”

  Mary frowned. “Do you truly love Brother Ben?”

  Ella Ruth slapped her hands to her mouth to keep from crying out.

  Mary must have seen that her question had caused Ella Ruth anguish. She nodded once, then said, “I will assist you. Now you must write to him that he is to direct your mail to Papa’s store.” She paused and patted Ella Ruth on the arm. “I wish you happiness, friend. I may call you friend?”

  Ella Ruth nodded, not yet able to speak.

  Mary gestured to a writing desk. “You may use that paper, but I have no stamps.”

  “I have enough coins to post the letter.”

  “Then you must get to the task.” Mary put down her babe and went to the window to shut off a rising breeze. She turned away before she did so and asked, “You are footsore. How are you to return home?”

  Seeing that Mary understood how she had arrived, Ella Ruth shook her head. “I haven’t a plan.”

  Mary turned back, called out the window, “James! Hold, please. Wait there,” and dashed out of the room.

  Ella Ruth’s heart throbbed with relief when Mary returned and told her James Owen would convey her home on the back of his horse. “You are a dear,” she whispered as she finished sealing the note and handing it over.

  “I said it before, friend Ella Ruth. I wish you happiness.”

  Ella Ruth hugged Mary, took her leave, and made her way carefully down the stairs to thank another kind soul for helping her in this time of dire need.

  Chapter 20

  Ben — March 20, 1862

  When Ben first read his mother’s letter exhorting him to attend church every time he had a chance, and to curb in himself the carnal nature of mankind, he felt his ears burn. Anger rose in his chest. Ma had no call to give him such advice. He wasn’t a little child sitting at her skirts, owing her his attention and paying heed to her words. He was a man now, a soldier with a man’s responsibilities for killing or being killed. He had precious little opportunity to attend prayer services when his time was spent on the battlefield or building roads over the muck and mud so wagons could bring provisions to the brigade. He was a man. With time on his hands this evening. With temptation in the form of perfumed and painted women calling to him from just beyond the camp.

  He was on the point of casting Ma’s letter into the fire and joining the fellows who were brushing the mud off their coats with the prospect of an evening’s pleasure when his eye fell upon a word in Ma’s fine handwriting. Disease.

  He scoffed, but with a sense of unease as he recalled her words. Ma was a forthright woman, but she did have a sense of delicacy and had never come right out before and mentioned in such searing detail the dangers of partaking of forbidden fruits.

  He reread the portion where her warnings had become particularly pointed. “...many cases of syphilis in the Soldier’s Hospital... suffering... go mad... treatment almost worse than the disease.”

  Was Ma helping in the hospital, exposed to the results of man’s corruptible nature?

  He’d never heard the proper name for French sickness before, but Ma knew it, and had warned him against venturing into a path that might bring such a vile retribution upon him. A thought chased through his mind that curdled the contents of his stomach. Pa had gone to war. Had he—?

  “Impossible,” he muttered. Pa would never sin against his wife. He was a man of honor.

  Where did that leave him, Ben? Where was his honor if he was contemplating lifting the skirt of a camp follower for a moment of relief?

  The feeling of sickness caught him so quickly that he almost lost his supper. He fought the nausea, swallowing over and over. His thoughts swirled in a dizzy array, but one swam to the top of the whirlwind. He’d made up his mind that when he got a chance, he would ask Ella Ruth to be his bride. Did he want to take home an evil sickness to pass to her?

  Sweat drenched his brow and ran in rivulets down his cheeks. He took out his handkerchief and mopped at his face. What would Ella Ruth think if he came home to her bearing the burden of worldliness? He could not stomach the thought of tainting her in such a manner. If he sinned in this fashion, he would lose her forever.

  The dampness of the handkerchief seemed to freeze his hand. Ma was right. He needed to get his appetites under control. He needed to go to church. He needed to get right with God. Above all, he needed to forestall any barrier between himself and Ella Ruth.

  ~~~

  Peter — June 10, 1862

  The fight had moved into the Shenandoah Valley, and Peter’s cavalry regiment fought up and down the road that summer, as General Jackson’s army chased Yankees. The enemy chased back, and the competing forces alternated driving and being driven.

  On a retreat through Mount Jackson, skirmishing with Frémont’s cavalry, Peter wished times were different and he could stop off at the farm for a visit. That would have to wait, as they were hard-pressed by vengeful Federals eager to take action against the Confederates for a defeat in the last battle.

  A few days later, close by Harrisonburg, the Yankees got an unexpected benefit from a relatively minor engageme
nt. A regiment of New Jersey cavalry led by an English adventurer attacked the Confederate cavalry, and in the fight, Colonel Turner Ashby’s horse was shot from under him. He rose to lead his men on foot, and fell almost immediately, pierced by a Yankee bullet. He died almost instantly.

  Jun 10, 1862

  In camp at Brown’s Gap, Vir.

  Der Ma,

  I wish I cood have pressed my lips to your browe when last I past the Farm, but Alas! the yankees drove us throu and we went up the Valy to a acursed place. You no dobt herd of our misfortunate encounter near Harisonburg. We are distrawt at the loss of Col. Ashby. Where will we find another leder of his dash and skill?

  The boys are very loe of mind at his passing, as am I. We do not know who will become our comander. Pray for us to get a good’un.

  I will leave off whinin, altho I coud speak my grief all the day.

  I hope to be able to see you next time we pass nearby. If not, I will wave my hand in fond greetin. Does Pa ever stop by? I see him from time to time, but not often.

  How big is Rulon’s little Baby now? Do you see him or does the Hilbrands family keep you away from him? I recall Rulon wanted Mistress Mary to live with you at the farm. Will she be moving there, now that she has presented an eir?

  I must close now. I am told we will be on picket duty tonight.

  With a heavy heart but most Affectionately,

  Your son, Peter

  ~~~

  Rulon — June 17, 1862

  June 17, 1862 in Camp near Charles City C-H, Va.

  Mary love,

  Our company has returned from a great Adventure, riding clear around the entire Army of the Federals. This is McClellan’s bunch of invaders. The boys were ready for patrol duty, as we did not engage in the late affair at Seven Pines, although we stood in readiness to support the infantry.

  What a time we had! It began when about a thousand of us were ordered to move to Kilby’s Station, where we were bid to cook three days’ rations, but given no further orders. You may imagine our surprise to be woke up in the middle of the night and told to be mounted in ten minutes! Oh Mary, what juices flowed in our veins at the prospect of a fight! I swear to you the very horses felt their oats that night.