In His Eyes: A Civil War Romance

by Stephenia H. McGee

  The words held more strength than she expected. Ella drew a sharp breath. “Don’t say such things. I will go and fetch a doctor.” She clenched her fists. “Whatever it takes, I will see that someone comes to help.”

  Cynthia gently laughed as she drew the baby closer. “You are a good girl. So kind to care for one like me.” She looked up at Ella with something sparking in her eyes. “Promise me something.”

  Ella dropped back down on the bed, but said nothing.

  “Promise me you will find him a good home when I am gone.”

  Ella struggled to withhold tears. “Don’t say that. You’ll be fine.”

  “No, dear girl. I feel the life slipping from me.” She patted Ella’s hand. “Tell me, do you think…do you think the God you prayed to would have me, even as I am?”

  Ella bobbed her head and clutched the woman’s hand. “I am sure of it. You need only ask.” At least, that is what her mother had always taught her.

  Cynthia gave a small smile. “I did, a bit ago whilst you were turning pale looking at the bed.”

  Ella’s brows rose.

  “Don’t fret. I am…thankful that my torment has at long last come to an end. Perhaps the next place will be clean and beautiful.” A smile played on her lips, contrasting with the pain in her eyes. “Maybe then…maybe I can be clean and beautiful again too.”

  A tear slid down Ella’s cheek, and she swiped it away. “Yes, it will be very beautiful there.”

  Cynthia gazed down at the child, then looked up at Ella with concern. “Please.” Her face puckered. “I’ve not much time….”

  “Yes. Yes, I will find him a home.” Somehow….

  “Take him to the Remington place. They are good, God-fearing people there. Took care of me once. They had a wet nurse. Take him there. Mrs. Remington will find him a home.”

  Ella choked down a sob. “I will. I promise.”

  Cynthia placed a gentle kiss on the baby’s brow. “Goodbye, little one.” She settled back against the pillow. Then, before Ella could react, the light left her eyes.

  Choking on sobs, Ella picked up the child from his dead mother’s arms and snuggled him against her chest. “There now, wee one. Don’t you worry. We will have you a home by morning’s light.”

  Then she kissed his downy hair and prayed she hadn’t just spoken a lie.

  Major Westley Remington III heard voices somewhere in the distance. They danced about somewhere just out of his ability to decipher them, tempting him to break free of the cloak of indistinct shadows that hung over him. He attempted to rouse himself, but found the task nigh impossible. Caught between the lands of dream and reality, he drifted about like a man caught in a current without a raft.

  Forcing himself to focus, Westley attempted to open his eyes, but they remained firmly closed despite his best efforts. He gave a grunt, but somehow could not find the energy to move his limbs. The mere effort seemed to steal something from him, and he began to sink back into a slumber. But not allowing himself to do so, Westley focused on the world outside the inky recesses of his mind. Noises flittered to him, but he could not find their meaning. Content to lie still lest he slumber once more, he listened purposefully.

  Light shifted across his eyelids, making them little red veils over his world. He found a measure of comfort in that. It meant he wasn’t blind. Merely…immobile. The second thought undid the peace of the first. What if he were somewhere on the field of battle, his body frozen and unable to shield itself from trampling hooves and the enemy’s sabers?

  Fear began to worm into his belly and he stiffened. No. The ground beneath him felt much too soft and the din of voices could not be the fearsome sounds of armies clashing. He listened closer. Unable to stand the unknown, he mustered his strength and pried open his crusted eyes, blinking against the sudden light.

  “Oh! Captain!” A female voice pierced through the swarming pain gathering in his head, and Westley turned his face toward it.

  “Here, take a drink, sir.” Cool hands slipped under and lifted his head and then metal pressed against his lips. He tried to get them to function, but they felt cracked and stiff. Half of what he attempted to consume dribbled down into his beard. He coughed, and though still thirsty, fell back with exhaustion.

  “Well, it seems that he lived after all. Looks like I owe Major Carlson dinner.”

  Westley tilted his head and blinked his eyes into focus. Before him stood a squat man in a dark blue uniform who peered down at him with bespectacled eyes. “Where…?” he croaked.

  The man rocked back on his heels. “You’re at the Hillsman Farm, fellow. Been here since Sayler’s Creek.”

  Westley tried to clear his throat but succeeded in little more than a weak cough. “How…?”

  “How did you end up here, or how did the battle go?”

  Westley nodded.

  “We got them right good. Cavalry set up blockades against Anderson’s advance and cut through Ewell and Anderson’s lines. We hedged those Rebs in with nowhere to go. Got three corps of Lee’s army that day. Yes, sir. And three days later he had no option but to surrender.”

  “Lee surrendered?” Westley croaked. Blast his voice. Why couldn’t he speak?

  The man scratched his russet beard, and Westley couldn’t be sure if the man had understood him or not. “You’ve been racked with the fever for a long time. At one point one of the orderlies almost sent you out with the dead until one of the nurses realized you were still breathing—nearly too shallow to see, mind you—and she had you brought back in.”

  He opened his mouth to inquire how long ago that might have been, but darkness edged in on his vision and his mind began to cloud. The last thing he heard before slipping into the darkness once more was the voice of the man standing over him. “Perhaps I conceded to Major Carlson’s victory a mite too soon….”

  The next time Westley awoke, he had a clear head and a gnawing sense of unease. He blinked away the discomfort of bright daylight until his eyes adjusted enough for him to see clearly. Frowning, he managed to get himself up on his elbows.

  He glanced down, unnerved to discover he wore nothing but a linen shirt as he sat on a sturdy bed. A patched quilt covered his bare legs and rested against his waist. Westley lifted his eyes to survey the room in which he found himself. Hewn plank walls and a squat structure indicated an old, common home of some kind. A farmhouse, perhaps? But whose?

  Thrusting back the cover, Westley struggled to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. The sudden movement caused a surge of pain, his head to swim, and an unwelcome revolt in his stomach. He had to close his eyes a moment, lest he tumble off the bed, or worse, retch.

  “Oh, no, you don’t! You get yourself right back in that bed, young man.”

  Westley’s eyes snapped open. A portly woman in a starched white cap stood in the doorway, one hand on her rounded waist and the other holding a bowl. The smell of something hearty drifted to him and his stomach rumbled. They stared at one another for an instant, then, remembering that his legs were exposed, Westley looked down at his feet and tried to shift the quilt to cover his embarrassment.

  “You’re right blessed those toes of yours aren’t green.” She huffed. “Or there at all, for that matter.”

  Westley looked up at the woman in confusion, and her face softened. She crossed the plank floor in a swish of yellow gingham skirts and placed the steaming bowl on the rustic table beside the bed. Westley’s eyes followed the food before returning to the woman’s ruddy face.

  “That doctor wanted to take your leg, you know. He was downright determined that you were getting the gangrene and that amputation was the only way to stop it.”

  Fear constricted in Westley’s chest, but he wouldn’t let it show. If he had lost a limb…he didn’t even want to think it. He wiggled his toes just for the comfort of knowing he still had them. He regretted the move as searing pain shot up his left leg. He flinched, instinctively reaching down to massage his thigh.

  �
�You broke that one right good. They set it, and we all thought you’d wake up fine, but then the fever came.”

  His manners came back to him in a flood—a torrent bursting through a dam of forgetfulness—and he suddenly loathed his indecency. What kind of gentleman sat about in nightclothes with his extremities exposed? His mother would have been aghast. Westley shifted his weight despite the pain and put his legs back under the bedclothes, cutting his eyes to the woman, who didn’t even possess the wherewithal to avert her steady gaze.

  The woman chuckled. “Boy, there’s no need for modesty around me. I’ve cared for seven boys of my own, not to mention all those who came through my house.” She turned serious. “That battle was a bad one, that’s for sure. But it finally brought this terror to an end.”

  She drew a breath and plastered on a smile as she scooped up the bowl. “Here. I brought you some broth.” She tugged a straight-backed chair with a cloth-woven seat over to the bed and settled herself on it.

  Westley could only focus on her previous words. “The war…” His raspy voice sounded strange to his ears, and he tried to clear his throat.

  “Hush. Take a few sips of this to ease your throat. Then you can talk.”

  Westley gave a brief nod and let the woman feed him like an infant. He suspected that if he dared to try the task himself, this stern nurse would only put up a fight. It was not a battle he cared to engage in at the moment. Besides, the liquid tasted too good for him to argue. He hadn’t had chicken broth this good since Sibby had fed him as a child. The thought of home sent a pang through his chest, and he pushed the sentiment away.

  “Besides,” the woman continued as she spooned liquid between his unkempt whiskers, “I’m sure I already know the things you are likely going to ask.”

  He grunted his reply.

  The woman smirked as she lifted the spoon to his mouth again. “The battle went well, and the Federal Army gained the victory.”

  Westley smiled. Good news, indeed.

  “We don’t know what happened to you, but we guess that you took some kind of tumble because you snapped your leg just above the knee.”

  Murky memories of his horse rearing clouded his mind. There had been blood. So much blood. Then the horse fell over on him….

  His countenance must have darkened, because the woman shifted the subject. “I’m Mrs. Preston, by the way. We’ve been a mite curious over who you are.”

  Westley swallowed three more spoons of the warm broth before attempting a reply. “You mean you don’t know?” As promised, the warm liquid did wonders for his throat. His voice was still raspy, but functioning.

  She handed him the bowl and spoon, and along with them a measure of his dignity. “We saw a scrap of paper pinned inside your jacket, but the words were smeared. Federal Major, by what was left of your uniform was the best we could tell.”

  Westley took the bowl from her and lifted the spoon for another sip. “Major Westley Remington, ma’am, of the Third West Virginia Calvary Regiment, Third brigade, Army of the Shenandoah.”

  “Good then.” She patted his hand as though he were a child who had correctly recited his lesson. “Well, Major Remington, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Likewise, ma’am.” Though Westley had to wonder if the term acquaintance applied to someone who had likely already known him in intimate ways brought about by caring for one out of his wits.

  She folded her hands in her lap. “Do you have any idea how long you have been here?”

  Apprehension buzzed within him. “No, ma’am.”

  “It’s May the second, Major.”

  Westley paused with the spoon almost to his mouth. That would make… He frowned. When was that battle? His frown deepened. Why couldn’t he remember?

  “You came here with the other wounded after the battle at Sayler’s Creek…”

  Ah, yes. He vaguely remembered a doctor. Bristly fellow. He’d said the same.

  “That was on the sixth of April.”

  Westley swallowed, allowing himself a moment. “I’ve been here for a month?”

  “Yes, sir. In and out of consciousness so much that I had a hard time keeping enough food and water in you to keep you alive. Didn’t think you’d make it. They even started hedging bets. Never seen a man so eat up with the fever hang on the way you did. As the weeks passed, we started to think you would sleep for all eternity.”

  “Where are my men?” Westley resumed eating again, scraping his spoon against the side of the chipped porcelain so as not to miss a drop.

  The woman shrugged. “They mustered out, I suppose, now that the war’s over.”

  Westley nearly choked. “Over, you say?”

  “You missed much.” She turned to look out the window, but Westley kept his focus on the sadness that filled her eyes.

  His chest constricted. Such a reaction could mean only one thing. “We…lost?”

  She snapped her honey-brown eyes back to him. “Oh, no. The United States obtained victory and succeeded in restoring our country. Three days after you fell, Lee surrendered at the McLean family house out in Appomattox.” She cocked her head, her cap sitting precariously on the mound of gray curls. “Don’t you remember the doctor telling you?”

  Westley shook his head.

  “Ah, well. You were a bit feverish.” She offered him a smile. “Well, Lee surrendered, but then Lincoln was shot—”

  Westley dropped his spoon. “What!”

  She fanned her face with her hand. “That scoundrel J. Wilkes Booth shot him in Ford’s Theatre. Took them what seemed forever to find the cur.”

  “And justice?” The words came out as nearly a growl.

  “He was killed when they attempted to capture him, and a trial was held for the conspirators. Hung four of them, sent the others to jail.”

  Westley let this information settle. “Johnson is president, then?”

  “Yes. And emancipation is being enforced. The South has been taken back into the Union.”

  Relief washed over him. These years of horror, blood, death, and the loss of his family and dearest friends had at long last come to an end. “That is good, then.”

  Mrs. Preston slapped her knee. “Good, indeed! I thought this bloody mess would never end.”

  Westley had to agree. He’d felt the same. A military man from a line of military men, he’d thought himself prepared for war. Welcomed it, even, in the naïve way of a young man yearning to earn his glory on the battlefield. Turned out he had no idea how much it would truly steal from him.

  Mrs. Preston rose and reached for the now empty bowl in his hands. “Now, best you get some rest. You’re still a long way from being ready to leave.”

  Westley surrendered the bowl. “I thank you for your kindness.”

  “You are very welcome. It is my duty to care for you poor boys as best as I can.” Her eyes misted, and she gave him a nod as she slipped out of the door.

  Westley wondered how many of her sons had survived these tumultuous years. He didn’t have long to contemplate it, though, because as soon as he settled back down in the warm blankets, exhaustion once more overtook him, and he drifted back into the quiet peace of sleep.

  Ella pulled the babe closer and tried to ready herself for the task before her. Night would be falling soon enough, and if she didn’t hurry, she’d be caught out in the unrelenting shadows. Breathing a request for forgiveness, she plucked Cynthia’s cloak and shawl from atop the valise on the floor, then glanced back at the body in the bed. She’d covered the woman’s form, but had not been able to clean her up.

  Forgive me.

  She grabbed the valise as well and headed for the door. Surely the woman wouldn’t need these things, and wouldn’t begrudge Ella taking them. She would need something in the days ahead as she tried to secure the child’s future.

  That’s what she told herself, but the guilt niggled anyway. The babe squirmed, drawing her attention back down to him. How long would it be before he would want another mea
l? She didn’t know much about children, but she did know that newborns ate every few hours. She wouldn’t be able to wait until morning to find the place Cynthia had told her about. It had to be midway through the afternoon by now, and she must hurry. Hopefully, the Remington home would be nearby.

  Ella still hesitated in the room. She hated to leave Cynthia like this. All alone with no one to care for her body properly. Where would they bury her? Would any marker be left to indicate who she’d been?

  Ella nuzzled her nose into the baby’s hair. Would that be what happened to her? With no family and no security, would she also wind up dead and alone somewhere with nary a soul to mourn her? Tears threatened, but she forced them back. No time to have pity on herself. This sweet babe needed her, and she would not leave him to starve. She tried to position him in her arm and put on the cloak, but found the task difficult. And how would she carry the valise in one hand and the babe in the other without growing too weary?

  The shawl. She dropped the cloak and spread the shawl on the floor, positioning the child in the middle. Then she scooped both up and settled the babe against her small bosom, wrapped the two ends around herself and then back to the front, and knotted the ends behind the baby’s back. Ella slowly removed her hands. The baby remained comfortably positioned against her, and she had the use of both hands.

  Thrilled with her accomplishment, Ella swung the cloak over her shoulders and fastened the clasp at her neck, then picked up the valise. She cast one final glance at the child’s mother, then set her jaw and descended the steps.

  Mrs. Hatch stood at the bottom of the stairs, a scowl etched in her angular face. “You defied me, girl.”

  Had the woman been waiting on her? “You were wrong. Someone had to help or they both would have died.”

  The woman’s eyes flitted to the baby hanging at Ella’s chest and took a step back. “What are you doing?”

  “Cynthia is dead. I must take the babe to a wet nurse.”

  Mrs. Hatch fingered the cloth at her neck and eyed the child as though it were some kind of wild animal Ella clutched. “A dead trollop? In my inn?”

  “Yes. And a baby who needs to be cared for.”