Chapter Thirteen
A summer breeze stirred the white lace curtains at the window as Clara bent over her writing desk. It was an elegant and feminine piece of furniture with a scrolled floral back and four small drawers for holding paper and envelopes, with an open compartment for ink and pens. The leather top was accented by spiral molding and contained a large rectangular drawer beneath it, where she had stored all of Jeremiah’s correspondence for safe keeping.
The fountain pen was poised over the blank sheet of paper before her. Pinching the bridge of her nose with her left hand, Clara closed her eyes and tried to formulate the letter in her mind before she began to write. As much as she despised sending Jeremiah bad news, she could not bring herself to withhold events she knew would be of interest to him.
“My Dearest Husband,” she began, “I hope this letter finds you well. With each day that passes, I miss you more and pray daily for your safe return. The fields have been planted and the corn is sprouting in rows of green promise, but it doesn’t seem fitting without you here. Nothing is as it used to be since this dreadful war has uprooted the life of peace we once knew.
“The entire state is now under the complete control of the Federal Government. Just as Baltimore was assigned a Provost-Marshall to replace the local authority there, Centreville has been assigned one as well. The position has been given to Captain Joseph Goldsborough, and it is his duty to quell any signs of rebellion and maintain order. While most anyone with a sympathy for the Confederate cause has the good sense to hold their tongue, this flaunting of military control has only aggravated the feeling.
“Yesterday I learned from Jane’s friend Emily, who attends St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, that the Bishop had authorized a prayer of thankfulness for the recent Union victories. Reverend Stearns refused to offer it, and I agree with his decision. As I love men on both sides of this horrible war, I cannot feel glad for any deaths which mark a victory for either one.
“Another recent event involves Judge Carmichael, whom I’m sure you’ll remember is known for his unwavering integrity and bold convictions, as well as his staunch belief in States Rights. In recent weeks he has been making his circuit through the local counties taking a stand against arrests of Eastern Shore citizens without warrants, as with Madison Brown and John Palmer. The Judge deemed it unlawful, and a crime subject to penalty. In Talbot County, the grand jury indicted Lieutenant Colonel Bailey and some others for illegal arrests.
“You can only imagine how that action was received. General Dix sent Deputy Provost Marshall McPhail along with eight of his deputies, including Bailey, to arrest the Judge! They interrupted Judge Carmichael in the act of trying a case and told him to consider himself a prisoner. When he demanded to see a warrant and be informed of the charges, he was told that he would learn the charge when he reached Fort McHenry. There was no warrant, though the Marshall made it clear that his arrest was authorized by the United States Government.
“When the Judge protested and informed McPhail that he had no right to interrupt the proceedings, McPhail announced to the spectators: ‘This court stands adjourned.’ Carmichael responded by ordering the crier to arrest the deputy who had attempted to arrest him.
“The deputy choked the crier and McPhail ordered Carmichael dragged from his bench. The deputies beat him over the head with their revolvers until he was too stunned and bloodied to resist further. He was then taken aboard the steamer Balloon, along with others placed under arrest (including the State’s attorney, Mr. Powell), and taken to Fort McHenry.
“In the very act of protesting illegal arrests, Judge Carmichael has become an example of one.
“My darling, I fear the world is going mad around us. When a kind and gentle soul like Judge Carmichael, a man dedicated to justice and truth, is treated in such a disrespectful and cruel way, it makes me wonder what hope there is for the war to end before we see much more bloodshed.
“I apologize for the dismal tone of this letter. I wish there were better news to share, but at least I can take comfort in knowing that you are safe and I am secure in your love. Until we see one another again, I remain faithfully yours.” Clara scrawled her name at the bottom of the page.
Reading over the letter, Clara chewed nervously on her lower lip. She hoped she didn’t sound bitter, angry or afraid, although she had to admit that each of these emotions warred within her. She supposed if her letter fell into the wrong hands, she could be accused of treason herself for siding with Judge Carmichael, whose arrest was authorized by the United States Government. But it just didn’t seem right. Nothing seemed right anymore. It was as if hell had loosed all its demons of hate and rage to wreak havoc on the mortal world.
Creasing the letter, Clara tucked it into the envelope and wrote the address of Jeremiah’s camp in Oak Hall, Virginia from memory. How she wished he could just come home.
At least there was still some good to be found in human nature. Watching Eli as he wooed young Mercy was something which brought delight to both Clara and Jane. Sunday mornings, he was nothing but smiles as he stood by the carriage, face scrubbed shiny and clothes brushed clean, waiting to escort Clara and Francis to church, and afterwards to the Collins’ residence.
Whether Mercy’s mama, Hattie, had threatened the boy’s life or he was so smitten that all he could do was swoon in her company, Eli treated the girl as if she were a prize to be earned. Wildflowers always appeared on the kitchen table in a cobalt blue vase shortly after his arrival, and the two could often be seen sitting on a log bench near the quarter, engrossed in lively conversation.
Like most of the slave women, Mercy’s hair was hidden beneath a cloth turban, and she wore a white apron over her brown cotton dress. She leaned forward to listen to Eli with a twinkle in her eyes, enraptured by every word he spoke. And Eli beamed in return, his teeth gleaming in a wide smile that split his black face from ear to ear.
Louis Bland was often in attendance for Sunday supper, and whenever he wasn’t, he was all Jane could think to talk about. When present, he was charming and polite, and hung onto Jane’s every word.
Although the two couples often inspired a twinge of jealousy or a pang of loneliness, Clara was glad to see evidence that there was still goodness in the world. It was reassuring to know that even though hate flourished as never before, love was still alive.
The water in his mug was lukewarm, but it was still refreshing as it slid down his throat. Jeremiah mopped his brow with his sleeve, thankful for the shade of his tent and the ability to remove his blue wool sack coat. The white shirt he wore beneath it was soaked through with sweat, which only made the coarsely knit wool fabric more uncomfortable against his skin.
Completing drills in the summer sun was torturous, especially since the Eastern Shore Infantry felt a bit like imposters as they acted out the part of a soldier. As they sweat, their slick palms made the ten pounds of musket more difficult to shift from shoulder to ground and back again, and complicated the process of fixing the bayonet to the muzzle.
In his heavy leather boots, his feet protested against the wool socks, which were wearing thin on the bottoms. Jeremiah had two more pairs he had brought from home in his haversack, keeping for when winter came again. Surviving the cold in a canvas tent had been more uncomfortable than fending off mosquitoes and other blood-sucking flies which feasted routinely on the soldiers in the summer.
The army had issued him one shirt, one pair of drawers (which he was also saving for cold weather), one pair of trousers, and one pair of socks. According to regulation, he would be given a new uniform after a year of service, although he feared the one he wore might not survive its demands to last until then. At least it didn’t have any bullet holes in it.
Slipping his feet out of the boots and socks, Jeremiah leaned back onto his cot, wiggling his bare toes. Next to him, Cullen wrinkled his nose.
“Can we open that flap a little wider?” he asked. None of the men were as clean as they could be. Although occasional bathing and washing of the clothes occurred, it was not as regular as it could have been.
Phillips chuckled as he lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose. His mustache twitched as the odor reached his nostrils. “I’ve met hogs that smell better than those feet.”
Jeremiah grinned, scratching his chin through his beard. Sometimes he wondered if they’d have any manners left by the time they were sent home.
Suddenly a face appeared through the flap of the tent as Sergeant Thomas ducked his head in. He glanced around at the men reclining on their cots and announced, “Tonight after the evening drill, Westbrook’s taking on a challenger. Any of you up for it?”
Cullen snorted. “I’d like to live to eat my mama’s cooking again.”
Westbrook was about three hundred pounds of solid muscle with fists the size of Cullen’s head. One of the pastimes the men enjoyed was boxing, and Westbrook was the resident champion.
Thomas sized Phillips up and raised his eyebrows. “What about you?”
Phillips chuckled, “I thought I heard Chaplain Davies volunteer.”
“Who’s taking my name in vain?” the chaplain’s voice cut through the resulting laughter as he entered the tent. He pointed a finger at Phillips, “I was passing by and heard you offer me up like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“Guilty as charged,” Phillips responded. “But I figured you could wear him down with Bible verses.”
Davies offered his dimpled grin. “But I tell you not to resist an evil person. But whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also,” he quoted.
“Unless he’s a Rebel. Then you can shoot ‘im,” Phillips added with an emphatic nod.
Young Cullen screwed up his face as he demanded, “If you’re a pacifist, why are you here, Chaplain?”
“Put on the whole armor of God that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age,” Davies replied without batting an eyelash.
“You have that whole book memorized?” Jeremiah wondered.
The twinkle in Davies’ eye warned that another verse would be his answer. “Therefore you shall lay up these words of mine in your heart and in your soul, and bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall teach them to your children, speaking of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up.”
“Yeah, I say we put him in the ring with Westbrook,” Phillips affirmed as he took another draw on his cigarette.
The impish grin which spread over Davies face made him look more like a ten year old boy than a man in his sixties. “Now, who’d want to damage a face as good looking as this?” he asked, patting his own cheek. “Even Westbrook can’t be that cruel.”
Jeremiah chuckled. “Something tells me you were a real charmer in your day.”
The chaplain didn’t deny it, simply winking in reply.
“Mail’s here!” a cry sounded from outside the tent. Jeremiah reached for his socks, slipping them back on and shoving his feet into his boots. There wasn’t a man present who didn’t hope for a letter from home, and the Army Postmaster’s call always drew a crowd.
Waiting with the others and hoping his name would be called, Jeremiah gathered around the tent designated as Post Office. He usually receive a letter from Clara at least once a week, sometimes more, and from his father a little less regularly. Without them, home would have seemed like a distant dream and not a real place to which he could one day return.
The chaplain’s name was called, and when he received the letter, the look on his face drew Jeremiah’s attention. “What is it?” he worried.
“Not his handwriting,” the chaplain replied, his humor having evaporated. He ripped the envelope open and withdrew the letter with shaking hands. Tears began to course down his cheeks as he read.
“Your son?” Phillips asked softly.
Davies nodded. “Killed in action…” the words wheezed from the old man’s lips in a barely audible whisper.
“I’m so sorry, Chaplain,” Jeremiah placed a hand on the small man’s shoulder, wishing he had something more to offer.
Compressing his lips into a firm line, as if afraid the terrible emotions rising up inside him would break free in a savage cry, the old man nodded his appreciation for the condolences. All the soldiers near enough to hear the news gathered around him in silent support. Davies clutched the letter against his chest.
“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord,” he forced the words through trembling lips. Then bowing his head, he somberly left the crowd to find a quiet place to grieve.