Gone for a Soldier

by Ward, Marsha

  Her mind managed a few thoughts. Ben. Gone. I won’t see him again. Ever. “Nooo,” her wail began again, rising to the rafters, a howl so primal she drew up her knees and curled into a ball.

  She would have fallen to the floor and remained there for the rest of her existence, screaming in an overabundance of woe if not for Ben’s father, who gathered her up in his arms and muttered to someone, who stuttered a reply. Lula.

  He carried her, lightly as she imagined Ben would have done had he been here to do the task, out into the vestibule and down the long hall to her parent’s room, where Mrs. Owen stripped back the bed covers so Mr. Owen could lay her tenderly upon the sheet. Lula sobbed in the background, rooted to the floorboards, immovable.

  “Water,” Mrs. Owen said to Lula, a bit sharply, as though to get her attention. “Bring her a glassful.”

  By now Ella Ruth’s cries had subsided to moans, but still came, unrestricted, from her lips. I must die, she thought. I must join Ben. Her eyes streamed now.

  “No,” said Mrs. Owen.

  You’re reading my mind.

  “No. You’re speaking aloud, child.”

  She had no sense of having spoken. I am losing my mind.

  “It will return,” Mrs. Owen said, her voice soft, but the sound grating as though her throat were raw. “The first shock will pass. You will be clear in your mind... someday.” Mrs. Owen’s voice broke, but she still did not shed a tear.

  Ella Ruth stopped moaning, but the flood of tears continued. She tried to put up her fist to dash them away, but her arm would not move, and they slid down her cheeks and onto the pillow. She looked from Mrs. Owen to Ben’s father. He held his hand over his eyes, and she knew he was hiding his own emotion. Mrs. Owen’s eyes were filled with affliction, but not tears.

  “Mama.” Pain washed over her again. Mama wasn’t here to blunt her sorrow. Mama was in Charlottesville. She didn’t know about Ben.

  Mrs. Owen patted her hand. “There, there.”

  Ella Ruth’s muscles finally moved, and she gripped the woman’s hand. She’s kin, my mother-in-law.

  “Mama,” she cried again, and Mrs. Owen enfolded her in her arms. Ella Ruth sobbed and wailed and cried anew. Hours must have gone by while she grieved, but Mrs. Owen never left her alone. She pressed a drink of water upon her, whispering soft words of comfort that seemed to come from a deep inner well. And yet, she did not join Ella Ruth in crying.

  At last, exhaustion came, and the tears dried to crusts on Ella Ruth’s cheeks. Mrs. Owen called for a cloth and warm water, and bathed Ella Ruth’s face.

  Relief touched Ella Ruth when she felt the cloth on her skin. Mary was right. Mama Owen is not hard to know. Mary loves her. I will too.

  ~~~

  Mary — April 14, 1865

  Father Owen left. Mary closed the door, went back into the parlor, and stared toward Rulon. He sat on the sofa, stunned, shriveled beyond anything she had yet seen. She wondered how she would get him back upstairs. He had come down on his own power when she told him his father had called in, but this news, this brutal news obviously had chopped him down to mincemeat.

  He looked up. There was no light in his eyes. They appeared sunken, anguished beyond her understanding. His gaze quickly dropped to his lap where his fisted hands pounded upon his thighs.

  His sense of loss was too great for her to comprehend. She had no brothers. She had come to know that Rulon had fought, teased, joked, wrestled, and loved Ben from the time of his birth. They’d worked and played side by side on the farm, teaming up against their younger brothers to teach them the lessons of life and the ways of boys. Now that bond with his next younger brother had been severed. He had every appearance of a devastated soul.

  Since she had become involved in Rulon’s life, she had learned that sisters were different. She supposed she loved them, but Ida was a handful, and prickly as a pincushion. Mary’s relationship with her next younger sister was not the same as Rulon’s had been with Ben.

  She sat gingerly beside him. He still thumped his legs, as though beating some understanding into a willfully heedless body.

  “Rule?”

  He turned to her, his eyes deep pits of despair. Still he kept up the thumping, looking away again, shaking his head now from side to side. Then he opened his mouth and cried out, “Bennnnnn,” so dolefully that Mary thought her heart would break at the pain he expressed. She thought of Roddy, perhaps awakening from his nap to the eerie sound, but Rulon’s need superseded that of her child, and she leaned in to put an arm around him.

  He shook her off, his face set in a grimace of stone.

  Her arm fell away, unwanted, unneeded. Her heart shrank at the rejection, but she struggled to bring reason to bear on the situation. He is hurt. Perhaps he wants to be alone just now. She didn’t want to leave him, but she rose and went away, trying to understand his need for isolation. I’ll check on Roddy, she decided. It won’t do for him to become frightened.

  Chapter 30

  Mary — April 22, 1865

  A week later, in an attempt to ease Rulon’s grief, Mary decided to wear a dress that had sweet memories for them, the dress with the lavender skirt that she wore the day she married him. The dark shade would keep their mourning, although the light bodice would not. She hoped he would forgive her the lapse when he saw her in it, if it brought to mind happier days.

  A happy surprise will do him good, she thought, searching through the wardrobe when he was asleep. She did not find the outfit there.

  Hoping it was in the attic, she got up into the small space, but did not find it. However, Roddy took delight in holding up his toy sword and prancing around the attic as though he rode a horse.

  Curbing her smile at the antics of her son, she wondered if she had left the dress behind at Papa’s house. Mary sighed, remembering the fuzzy state of her mind when Rulon had returned in such dire straits. Yes, it probably still occupied a place in Ida’s wardrobe.

  “Come down now, Roddy. We must go wake Papa.” She brushed dust off the boy. “He will have charge of you while I run an errand.”

  “Papa will play with me? Yippee!” he crowed, and dashed down the stair ahead of her.

  “Quiet, dear son. We must wake Papa slowly, lest he become startled.”

  “Papa, Papa, Papa,” Roddy whispered with enthusiasm.

  Mary shushed the boy and took him into the larger bedroom of the two in the house.

  “Rulon,” she said softly as she passed through the doorway. She put a finger to her lips for Roddy’s benefit, and approached the bed. “Husband? Will you wake?” When Rulon opened his eyes she continued. “Could you tend to Roddy for an hour? I must go do an errand.”

  Rulon raised himself on an elbow. He smiled at the child. “He gives me joy, Mary. I don’t mind playing nursemaid for a spell.”

  She smiled, grateful that in the last two days Rulon had found his strength returning. A week ago, what a horror to learn of another great loss! It had laid Rulon low again, a setback to all the progress he had made in healing from his injuries. But yesterday he was much improved, and she took heart that his grief had taken on a yearning, almost accepting aspect, which helped soothe her own pain. Brother Ben had treated her kindly. She would miss him terribly. How Miss Allen must feel!

  Once Roddy was safely in Rulon’s charge, Mary hurried to the home of her childhood, watching out for Yankee soldiers, and went straight into her old room to search the wardrobe.

  She found Ida in the room, sitting before the mirror, hunched over something she held close. She appeared to be in an unusual state, moaning softly to herself.

  “Ida! What are you up to?”

  Ida shrieked, jumped up, and backed away, trying to hide the object in her hand behind her back, but Mary was too quick for her, and snatched away a piece of paper.

  Ida’s red face turned petulant. “I’m only exploring the delights that entranced you,” she blustered. “I deserve a few delights.”

  Mary looked at the pape
r and froze. A letter. Her letter. The lost letter from Rulon. Horrors! Ida had stolen it.

  “‘My body and vigor are yours alone’,” Ida sneered. “They can’t be anything special, now that he’s all full of holes.”

  “You read my letter.” Mary’s ears rang, and she grabbed the back of Ida’s chair to support herself.

  “Perhaps he is missing his Things,” Ida taunted, pointing downward. “Is that why he’s so cross?”

  “You read my letter and kept it from me.” Mary’s toes gripped the insides of her shoes.

  “You don’t know, do you? Six months, and you haven’t even bothered to lay with him.” Ida’s mouth twisted in a smirk.

  “What sort of tramp are you?” Mary asked in a low voice.

  “I am not a tramp.”

  Mary spoke the worst insult she could think of. “Are you servicing Yankees?”

  Ida cried out at the accusation and came at Mary with her nails bared.

  Mary socked her in the eye. “You shame yourself,” she hissed as Ida fell backward on her hind end. She turned and left the room.

  She ran down the stairs, amazed at the rage that would not abate. Shaking out the pain in her violent hand, she hustled down the blocks, heedless of any Yankees standing about. Just let them try to molest her!

  What Ida had said was true. She had not lain with Rulon. They had tried, but bitter circumstances prevented their union.

  She stormed into her own house, shaking, wishing she had torn out Ida’s hair, but knowing it was better to get away from the wayward minx. Shivering, she escaped toward her room, found Rulon alone, and stood in the doorway holding the letter she had never finished reading.

  “I wore him out,” Rulon said in a sleepy voice. “He’s taking a nap.”

  She began to cry, almost certain he had all his manly parts, but ashamed that she had not been more attentive, more loving. Perhaps he now had no interest in her. After all, it had been months since that distressing attempt on New Year’s Eve. In truth, his distressing weakness had frightened her. She had not wanted to press him with her needs, but perhaps he no longer wanted her. She gulped, hiccoughing now, then sobbing again as Rulon rose and came toward her.

  “Mary?”

  “Do you want me?”

  “Mary, Sugar,” he sighed, wrapping his arms around her. “Hush, now. Hush.”

  She leaned into his chest, wetting his shirt. She thumped his shoulder, away from his wounds. “Do you want me?”

  “I do,” he whispered into her hair. His arms tightened.

  “She stole my letter.” She shook it until the paper rattled. “I had not read it through.” She listened to the horrible breaking of her voice. How can he care for such a ninny?

  He didn’t ask who she meant. “My precious Mary. Come. Sit. I will read it to you.” He sat in the rocking chair, holding her on his lap, and took the paper from her hand. “My beloved wife,” he began, and read it to the end, his voice trembling with emotion. He ended with, “Ever, your Rulon,” and held her closer than before.

  Mary turned her head and stretched up to kiss him on the mouth. “Show me,” she whispered against his lips.

  No dunce, he did.

  ~~~

  Rod — April 28, 1865

  Rod stalked around the room, slapping one fist into the other. “Carl should be home by now.”

  Julia glanced up from her ever-present mending. “Husband, he may have gone south. You told me about the army in the Carolinas.” She paused, then said quietly. “He’s stubborn enough to not give up.”

  He turned on her, scowling. “He may be rotting in a grave and us without a whit of knowin’.”

  “Could he be a prisoner?”

  Rod looked at his wife. She had sounded hopeful, as though being in prison was better than being dead. He immediately repented of his scornful thought. Even if his son was in prison, he was still breathing. Not like Peter. Not like Ben. Alive.

  He stood still and let his ire drain away. It wouldn’t help his thinking. He had to admit to himself that anger never did. At last he was ready to consider the possibilities with rational purpose. “His name hasn’t shown up on a casualty list.” He said it almost like a sigh.

  “No,” Julia agreed.

  “If he went south, there’s no way to know until he comes home.”

  “Yes.”

  He wished Julia would cry, mourn Ben’s death as the Allen girl had done. It worried him that she hadn’t shed a tear yet. It couldn’t be doing her any good.

  The Allen girl. He had to stop thinking of her by that name. She counted herself an Owen now. He shook himself. His mind seemed to wander off too much lately. He wondered if grief did that to a body.

  Carl. “If he’s a prisoner, we won’t get word.”

  “They wouldn’t keep him now that the war’s done, would they?”

  He didn’t know. He shook his head.

  “Then we wait.” She looked down and took a stitch.

  She seemed so calm.

  “One thing I learned about the Yankees,” he said, “is they keep records. Good records. If he’s a prisoner, there will be a record of him in Washington City.” He rubbed his thumb across his forefinger. “I should leave this week.”

  “No!”

  He jumped at the harshness in Julia’s voice.

  “I can’t wait around forever.”

  “We wait and give the boy time to get home. If he doesn’t come in a month’s time, you can go.”

  Simple. Direct. His Julie’s mind was working clear and true, even in the midst of this trouble. He moved behind her, put his hand on her shoulder. He gave it one pat. She placed her hand over his. The warmth eased his anxiety. For Carl. For her. If her mind was working, her tears would come loose sometime.

  ~~~

  Mary — May 10, 1865

  Mary stood on the corner, watching the Federal cavalrymen parading themselves down the street like they owned Mount Jackson outright. She shivered. Men ought not to take upon themselves such self-righteous airs.

  When they had passed, she stepped into the street to cross, but hesitated as one horseman wheeled and gave her the eye, then smirking, joined his fellows in their haughty procession.

  “Yankees!” she said, spitting into the dust. The action made her half ashamed of herself, but she had been through just about enough turmoil for a lifetime. She didn’t need to feel insulted every time she put a foot outside her door.

  She finished crossing the street, slowing her pace so as not to show a shred of fear. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

  She walked a block, then turned a corner to a blast of laughter coming from Fletcher’s Tavern. She stopped. Did she dare to walk past the door where a bunch of soldiers had congregated in plain daylight to drink spirits and behave in outrageous ways? She crossed her arms against her bosom, shivering again. She’s heard whispers of women being assaulted when they ventured into the streets of Mount Jackson at night. Did the same danger present itself here? She decided to be on her guard and take another route to her destination.

  Another peal of laughter unnerved her, and she backed around the corner, chest heaving as she took in great gulps of air. Oh Rulon. I wish you were strong and whole again.

  ~~~

  Julia — May 16, 1865

  The rap on the front door startled Julia. Strangers used that entrance. Someone at the front door almost always meant bad news or unwelcome company.

  She got slowly to her feet, abandoning her mending. Everyone in the family but Carl was accounted for. Was someone here to tell her that he, like Peter and Ben, would never come home?

  She moved toward the door on limbs that felt as heavy as pig iron bars. She opened the door. Ella Ruth Allen stood on the porch, dressed from bonnet to hem in black. Only her white face broke the somber color of the trappings of grief.

  “Oh!” Julia said, and swung the door wide.

  The girl stepped inside and put out her black-mitted hand, seemingly unsure what manner of gre
eting to offer.

  Julia took it, pressed it between her two hands, then led her deeper into the room.

  “I don’t know how to call you,” Ella Ruth said in a whispery voice. “Your comfort when you came— You are Ben’s— I am Ben’s—” She sank into the chair Julia offered.

  “I reckon we’re beyond the stage of formality,” Julia replied as she sat.

  Ella Ruth nodded. “We cannot be formal. He was... ” She faltered, looked at her hands, clenched them until they went white, pulled her back straight and erect, and looked at Julia again. “You are my mother-in-law.”

  “Ben thought not.”

  “He is... was mistaken.” Ella Ruth stopped speaking for a moment, and Julia allowed her time to compose herself and gather her thoughts.

  “There was no one to marry us. Mr. Moore, the mayor, even the Dunker preacher, they were all gone.” Ella Ruth’s voice had a tinge of desperation. “We even considered a military officer, except I would not be married by a Yankee.” She paused again. “Ben agreed. He was in danger of capture every moment he was away from the army.”

  Julia asked a question that had been burning a hole in her soul. “Why was he with you? Did he desert?”

  “Never! He was shot in battle. I kept him safe while he healed.”

  Julia let the anxiety leave and replaced it with unease of another sort. “You could not marry, yet you claim kinship to me.”

  The statement hung between them for a moment. Ella Ruth broke the silence with a sigh, then said, “Poppa’s slaves. They used a wedding ceremony that he recognized as binding. Ben and I jumped the broomstick.”

  “Jumped the what?” Julia entwined her fingers and rubbed her thumbs together.

  “Broomstick. It’s an old custom among the servants,” Ella Ruth said. She looked thoughtful, narrowing her brows briefly. “Actually, Ben stepped on the broomstick. He was not sound enough to hop.”

  Julia nodded. “I see. That made a marriage?”

  “We also said words. Vows. He loved me.”

  “And you loved him?”