Gone for a Soldier

by Ward, Marsha

  “I love him still,” she said.

  Julia sensed the girl’s deep conviction in the matter of her marriage being as real as though they had been church-wed. She let the conviction come across the space between them and into her own soul, felt the comfort it brought. The girl had married Ben. She basked in that surety. Then she remembered a phrase from his letter. She unclasped her hands and placed them in her lap.

  “Will there be a child?”

  Ella Ruth’s face crumpled and she made a sound of woe. Then she said, “No,” in an agony-wracked voice. She choked back a further sob.

  Another silence wrapped around them, and they sat in its embrace.

  At length, Julia spoke. “I will call you ‘Daughter’. What will you call me?”

  Ella Ruth came off her chair and to her knees before Julia. She grasped her hands. “Will you be ‘Mama Owen’?”

  “With all my heart,” she answered.

  Ella Ruth buried her face in Julia’s lap and began to cry. When she raised her tear-streaked face, she said, “Poppa and Momma are taking me away to Charlottesville. I may never see you again.”

  “You cannot know that,” Julia said. “Charlottesville is not so far from here.”

  “Perhaps not.” She sniffed and delicately touched the tip of her nose with her knuckle. “I will not remarry,” she stated flatly. “I will always be Ella Ruth Owen.”

  “You will always be my daughter,” Julia replied. “Daughter Ella Ruth.”

  ~~~

  Julia — May 21, 1865

  Julia heard the sound of running footsteps coming from the direction of the lane. She stopped grinding corn and looked up as Albert ran in, yelling like the Yankees were still warring with the neighborhood.

  “Ma!” The boy stopped, panted, went on. “Somebody’s riding in, mighty confident like.”

  She pushed back a loose lock of hair. “Confident, you say? Does he look like a Yankee?”

  Albert hung his head. “I mostly just saw him a-coming before I ran in, Ma. But he’s riding real straight and sure of himself.”

  “Get your pa,” she said, walking to the corner and grabbing the Sharps rifle. “No Yankees will set foot in this house.”

  Julia walked through the doorway with the Sharps in firing position and watched as a horseman in a mud-covered gray coat came down the lane from the pike. That man rides bold, she thought. Bertie spoke the truth.

  “Hold up right there,” she called out. “Put your hands where I can see ‘em, and get down off that horse.” She could see now that he was a young man. Maybe a Confederate cavalier on his way home? Best she found out before she lowered the weapon.

  He halted the horse and raised his hands but made no other move than to laugh. “You always did look fine with fire in your eye, Ma.”

  She sucked in her breath, almost disbelieving the sight of her son’s familiar grin. “Carl?” She took a step, lowering the rifle barrel toward the ground. “Carl! Is it really you? Lawsy, boy, we almost gave up on ever seeing you again.”

  Her eyes started to tear up, and she swiped at them with one hand. “Get off that horse and hug your ma.”

  He dropped gingerly to the muddy ground and approached with long strides. “Ma, I’m home.” He grabbed her—rifle and all—and swung her into the air.

  As he lifted her, she caught sight of a wince that he tried to cover. That, coupled with the dried blood on his face, sent her into a tizzy of worry over his health.

  Carl set her on her feet at last, and brushed at the mud he had transferred to her dress. “I’m sorry about the mud, Ma. I had a little trouble with some fellers down the road a piece, and we wrasseled around a bit. Here, let me put that rifle aside. I reckon you don’t want to put a ball into me.”

  He took the rifle from her nerveless hands and began to walk toward the front of the house.

  She followed him, trying to stop him so she could get a clear view of his face, but he kept walking. “You’re not hurt? What’s the meaning of that blood on your chin, then?” She watched him lean the rifle against the stone wall and took the opportunity, when he straightened up, to get close.

  “Here, let me look at you.” She grabbed his arm, and turned him so she could inspect the source of the dried blood. As he squirmed in her grasp, she noted that he appeared to be not much damaged, beyond a split in his lip and several bruises. She moistened the corner of her apron with her tongue and dabbed at his face.

  “Ma!” he protested. “It’s just a little cut.”

  “And it needs tending to,” she insisted, then hugged him again.

  “Look here!” Rod’s voice. Threatening. He could be so formidable.

  Julie looked at him, feeling her smile spreading wide as a rainbow. Before she could speak, Carl turned to him.

  “Have I changed so much, Pa?” He grinned under his camouflage of smeared mud.

  “Rod, it’s Carl. He’s home at last.” Julia swiped at the mud on her face with the apron.

  Without a word, Rod wrapped his arms around Carl. After a long embrace, he held him off to look at him, and shook his head. “By gum, you sure got your growth dashing around with Mosby. We thought you were dead, boy, not hearing from you, nor seeing you home yet.”

  “Your pa was set on going to Washington City to ask after you.” Julia could not stop smiling.

  “I took the long road home. The Colonel disbanded the Rangers about three weeks into April, but me and some thirty others wouldn’t leave him, so he took us south to join up with General Johnston in the Carolinas. Before we got there, we learned the General had surrendered, so Colonel Mosby cut us loose and made us go in to get paroled.” He paused a moment, rubbing at a patch of mud on his nose. “They won’t give him a parole, Pa. There’s a price on his head!”

  “I reckon there’s mighty little justice around now, son. Your colonel won’t get fair treatment since Booth shot the President. There’s rumors Mosby had a hand in it.”

  “Somebody shot Jeff Davis?”

  “The other president, Abe Lincoln.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Rod set his jaw and turned his back on Carl. Julia reached out for him, but he walked off toward Carl’s horse.

  He picked up the trailing reins and came back. “Yes, and it brings hard times upon us. There’s no mercy in the boys running the country now.”

  “Mosby had no part in it, Pa.” He turned toward Julia. “Ma. I rode with him day and night for over two years.” He pivoted back toward Rod. “He done no such a thing.”

  “I reckon,” Rod said.

  “He didn’t. That’s all.” Carl’s stomach growled. He looked at Julia. “Sorry my gut’s so ill-mannered.” He glanced around the ruined dooryard. “It sure don’t look like Phil Sheridan left much hereabouts. We heard about his orders to burn the Valley, but we laughed. Not one of us believed he could do it as long as Jeb Early’s troops were on home ground. How did he do it, Pa?”

  “They sent in two and three times our number, son. All we could do was pester them around the edges some.”

  “Well, here I am now. I’ll help rebuild the place. This ground will still grow food—if we can get seed.”

  Julia watched Albert come out of the shadow of the corner of the house. “Here’s your brother, Bertie. Home safe.”

  Carl said, “You can’t be Bertie. He were a little bitty sprout when I left.”

  “I ain’t a sprout now. I been growing.” His face bore a frown. “I go by Albert,” he added, his voice a touch heated. “I’ll be fourteen nigh on to Christmas time.”

  “You aged a right smart bit, Albert. Been doing most all the chores, I reckon.”

  “You left ‘em to do.”

  Carl nodded. “I figured you three boys could handle the farm. When Peter died, I was obliged to take his place in the fight.”

  “I reckon.” Albert looked at the ground and kicked the mud.

  “I didn’t know James would go, too.”

  Julia said, “They drafted him.”
She moved forward and pulled on Carl’s arm. “Come in and set, boy. Doubtless you’re weary, riding all day. I’ll finish the pone we’re having for supper while you tell your pa what shape the Valley’s in south of here. He’s been seeking news of the state of the Valley ever since he got home.”

  “Now Julie, the boy’s just got here. I can quiz him later while he eats.” Rod turned to Albert. “Take your brother’s horse out back and put him in the pen behind the barn. See if you can find some grain. That animal’s come far.”

  “Yes, Pa.” Albert took the reins and led the horse around the corner of the house.

  Julia got her rifle and went inside. She restored the weapon to its place behind the door, then went back to grinding corn. Carl and Rod came into the house and began to converse before the fire, something about buttons and uniforms and Yankees who had knocked him around.

  She asked him, “That’s where you got the cuts and bruises and the mud?”

  “I reckon, but they didn’t hurt me none.”

  He eased his body to a new position, and she figured he would be plenty sore tomorrow. She’d best give him the bottle of liniment before bed.

  Rod’s reaction was typical of his attitude nowadays. He slapped his thigh and spat out, “Yankees!”

  Julia dumped the batch of cornmeal into a bowl with the rest she had ground. Pone was getting old, but at least they had corn to make it. Carl and Rod kept up the buzz of their talk as she mixed the meal with a bit of leavening and poured water over it.

  As she mixed the bowl’s contents with her large wooden spoon, Carl turned toward her.

  “Ma, where’s Marie and the little girl? Ain’t they supposed to help you?”

  Julia shook her head at his characterization. “Your little sister is nigh on to twelve years old, boy. We kept having birthdays while you were away.” She looked over at him. “You’ve had a couple yourself. Ain’t you about nineteen now?”

  “Closer to twenty, Ma. I ain’t a young’un no more.”

  Julia looked at the week-old stubble on Carl’s face. He had grown into a man. “I see you been over the mountain, son.” She laid down the spoon and began the task of forming corn cakes between her hands. “To answer your question, I sent the girls to Mount Jackson to Rulon’s place. Mary’s not feeling well. She’s got Rulon to tend to, so they’re helping out with young Roddy. I wrote you Rulon got hurt bad. Did you get my letter?”

  Carl nodded.

  “There’s a mite more food in town,” Rod said. “Your ma has her wits scraped down to a nubbin to find us enough to eat since Sheridan paid his call.”

  “I sent Clay in with the girls,” Julia added. “He got himself a job at the livery. I only have to find victuals for your pa, James and Albert.”

  “And Benjamin,” Carl reminded her.

  Julia stiffened. The boy didn’t know. She didn’t fault him for bringing up her deepest sorrow, but his words caused pain to well up out of the place where she’d hidden it away. It swept over her with such force that she thought she would fall to the floor. She saw Rod take a step toward her. Silence hung in the room like a curtain made of combed cotton fibers, thick and heavy and oppressive. Then Rod spoke, his words muffled and measured.

  “Benjamin fell at Waynesborough. I had no way to get word home. Your ma only found out when I got here.”

  Carl sagged on his stool and dropped his head against his hands. Julia felt her ears ringing hollow, filling her skull with a soft buzzing. She thought she should sit before she fell, but Carl was getting to his feet, turning to face Rod and her.

  “I’m powerful sorry,” he said standing stock still. “Benjamin was always such a lucky cuss, full of life, and all. It don’t seem right he’s gone.” Carl bowed his head, took a deep breath, and began again. “Ma, I know he was your favorite son, and I don’t hold it against him. He was the favorite of everybody.”

  She felt herself toppling, her face going slack like she was blacking out. Carl took two steps and had her in his arms, holding her up, patting her on the head and shoulders. She clung to him, struggling against the dammed emotions she needed so badly to unleash. She felt as though a serpent wrapped around her ribs so tightly she could scarcely breathe.

  “There now, Ma, you cry. It’ll do you good.”

  She wanted to cry. She hadn’t been able to do it since Rod had brought her word.

  Rod’s arms came around the two of them. “The boy talks sense, Julia. You ain’t cried since you got the news. Let tears come and wash out the grief you been carrying around.” His voice became gruff as he said, “I reckon I already done my sorrowing.”

  The remembrance of her husband sobbing over the loss of his sons cut through the snake binding her heart. The tears came in a great torrent that let her heart expand. She wailed. She cried out. She drummed her fists against Carl’s chest.

  Her men waited, suspended, as her sobs tore the air. After a long, long time, she quieted, wiped the tears from her cheeks with her apron, and stepped out of the men’s arms.

  Exhausted, yet strangely renewed, she said, “I reckon that’ll have to do for Benjamin. The living need their daily bread.” She went back to the table, wiped her hands, and went to work again on her supper preparations. Carl was home. Rulon was on the mend. The family was now as whole as it could get after the terrible conflict. Somehow, they would survive.

  ~~~

  Mary — May 24, 1865

  Mary sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from her husband. She found her voice and asked, “Rule?”

  After a moment, he answered in a voice burred with sleep, “Love?”

  In truth, she’d been sitting there for some time, endeavoring to find more courage than she thought she possessed. Butterflies flitted through her stomach. Will he be pleased?

  Exhausted with the emotion she’d been wrestling all afternoon, she felt the need to rest her dithering head, to lie close to him. She rose, pulled the sheet free, and slipped beneath the covers. Rulon turned on his side and laid his arm across her body, just under her bosom. The warmth from his skin heartened her, and she asked again, “Rule?”

  A sigh escaped her lips before she could tumble any more words out, and she sensed him coming awake.

  “I’m here.”

  Let him be pleased. She turned toward him, lightly touching his cheek. “Husband.” She paused, choking back her joy until she knew his mind. “Rulon. I am... increasing.”

  His arm tightened, drawing her closer, pulling her against him. “Sugar,” he murmured against her lips. “My sweet Sugar.”

  The End

  About the Author

  Marsha Ward is an award-winning writer and editor who has published over 900 pieces of work, including four previous novels in the Owen Family Saga, numerous newspaper articles, and sections in books on the craft of writing. She is a member of Western Writers of America, Women Writing the West, and American Night Writers Association. Born in the sleepy little town of Phoenix, Arizona, Marsha grew up with chickens, citrus trees, and lots of room to roam. She began telling stories at a very early age, regaling neighborhood chums with her tales as they snacked on her homemade sugar cookies and drank cold milk. Visiting her cousins on their ranch and listening to her father's stories of homesteading in Old Mexico and in the Tucson area reinforced Marsha's love of the 19th Century Western era.

  After many years in the big city, Marsha now makes her home in a tiny hamlet under Central Arizona's magnificent Mogollon Rim. When she is not busy researching, writing, or mentoring fellow writers, she loves to travel, give talks, meet readers, and sign books.

  Other Books by Marsha Ward

  The Man from Shenandoah

  Ride to Raton

  Trail of Storms

  Spinster’s Folly

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