“I brung you some more!” Silas sang out as he emptied a basket of freshly picked lima beans into the tub between Phoebe and Clara. His black cheeks were round as apples as he grinned, scampering back to the vegetable garden where his sister, Lena, knelt between the rows filling a basket of her own.
Shelling the beans was the part of the process Clara enjoyed most. Although it was tedious work, there was something peaceful about the repetition of the process and the satisfaction of seeing the empty pods pile up in one basket while the beans filled up in another. And the open air of the porch was far preferable to the stifling heat of the kitchen when it came time for canning.
Grasping the green pod in her hand, Clara took hold of the thick string at the top and pulled down, unsealing the shell. Squeezing gently, the pod split open to reveal the beans within. Using her thumb, Clara freed the beans, spilling them into the bowl on her lap. Once the bowl was full, she would add them to the basket.
Even under the shade of the porch, the afternoon was warm. Sweat beaded her upper lip, and Clara was grateful for the light breeze that stirred the tendrils of hair at her neck. Beside her at the table, Phoebe hummed a Negro spiritual, the words occasionally breaking through.
Clara was tempted to ask Phoebe about the rounded swell beneath her apron, but decided to wait until the black woman chose to announce it. Phoebe’s slender frame made her early pregnancy impossible to hide, the conspicuous bump straining against the waistline of her dress.
The women worked side by side, the silence broken only by the throaty hum of Phoebe’s song and the warbling of the birds in the trees. When she first noticed Phoebe’s condition, Clara had felt a thrill of joy for her. But on its heels had come a stab of jealousy. Jeremiah had been away eight long months, and she had no idea when she would see him again. Sometimes she wished she had conceived before he left so that she would have his child to tend in his absence. At other times she was grateful she didn’t have the worry of raising a child during this era of chaos and death.
In the garden, Lena suddenly stood, shielding her eyes against the sun as she stared out into the distance toward Turners Lane. Leaving her basket where she stood, she approached the porch. “Looks like you gots company, Missus Clara,” she informed her. Clara followed her to the front of the house, recognizing the carriage immediately.
“Mother!” Clara cried as Naomi stepped down. Jane followed behind her. “Is everything all right?” she worried. It was out of the ordinary for them to make an impromptu visit.
“Yes, my dear,” Naomi answered, although Jane’s eyes said something different.
“Lena, can you prepare some tea and bring it to the parlor?” Clara asked the teenager as she motioned her guests to the front door. “Please come in,” she forced a smile, wondering what news this visit portended. Removing her apron, she smoothed the skirt of her cotton day dress as she settled onto the sofa.
“Now, will you tell me what it is?” she demanded softly, searching Jane’s face for answer.
“Your sister is engaged,” Naomi informed her brightly, although the forced cheerfulness behind the announcement troubled Clara. “Your father gave Louis his permission just this morning.”
Clara turned back to Jane. “You don’t seem as pleased as I expected,” she commented, waiting impatiently for the rest of the story.
“He’s enlisting in the Federal Army,” Jane supplied the missing information.
“Oh…” Clara searched her mind for something encouraging to say, but nothing came to mind. She remembered clearly the day that Jeremiah left, and the ache that had settled in her chest and never quite left since.
“He says it’s better to enlist now, rather than wait to be drafted,” Jane explained. “He says that the President has called for three hundred thousand more men to fight, and that if each state can’t meet its quota, they’ll resort to mandatory conscription. Lincoln thinks we can finish the war once and for all…” Jane’s voice trailed off as they all wondered just how realistic such optimism was.
A bounty of one hundred dollars was being offered to any man who enlisted, not to be paid until after his term of service was complete and he was honorably discharged. It was meant to be an incentive as the fervor of patriotism had cooled in the face of the war’s brutality.
“It’s only a nine month term,” Jane continued, her hands knotting in her lap. “The war might even be over by then.”
Jeremiah had signed on for three years of military service. At the onset, the prediction had been that the South would be defeated in just six months. Now Lincoln was calling for more men.
Clara reached for her sister’s hand. Poor Jane. What should have been a time of celebration was instead marked with sadness and fear. The war had taken so much from them already, but Clara suspected it would take much more before it was over.
All the traditional responses to an announcement of engagement seemed inappropriate. “I’m so happy for you,” or “When will you have the wedding?” all sounded insensitive in light of the situation.
Clara was relieved when Lena arrived with the tea tray and interrupted the lengthening silence. She forced a smile, knowing her mother and sister would appreciate the effort while understanding the insincerity behind it, as she proceeded to host the visit as if all was well and right with the world.
The following morning, Clara had just finished dressing when she heard her father-in-law calling her name and immediately rushed down the stairs to the study. Her heart thudded in her chest.
“Is it Jeremiah?” she demanded as she flew into the room, her skirt swirling around her legs as she came to an abrupt stop.
“No, no!” Francis assured her. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s Charlie,” he held up the letter in his hands. “He somehow smuggled a letter through.”
Sinking down into the leather armchair next to Francis’ desk, Clara felt almost dizzy with relief. For a moment she had feared the very worst, and now her emotions felt like a runaway horse that could not be reined in.
“I’m so sorry!” Francis exclaimed as he observed her attempt to regain control of herself. “You look quite pale,” he worried. “Would you like a brandy?”
Clara had to smile at his offered remedy. “I’ll be all right,” she promised. “I just…” But there was no need to explain. They both knew the possibilities. Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she asked, “How is Charlie? Is he well?”
Francis handed her the letter to read herself, although he related the contents to her as if he hadn’t. “He didn’t write much. I supposed he had to be mindful if it fell into the wrong hands. Says he fought in a battle at Front Royal and was wounded in the right shoulder, but it was just a flesh wound. He’ll be all right.”
Clara read over the brief missive, the stiff wording and sparse detail leaving her with the impression that Charlie was giving them bluster and bravado to shield them from the truth of his overall condition. But even if he was wounded, even if he was broken inside, he was still alive.
“I’m going to write Jeremiah,” Clara stated as she came to her feet. “He’ll want to know.”
Francis nodded as she rushed from the study, hurrying up the stairs to her delicate writing desk. Retrieving a fresh sheet of paper, Clara hastened to pen the words she knew Jeremiah longed to hear: “Your brother is alive and safe.” No matter that they were formally enemies, they were first and above all family. And blood was a bond that even war couldn’t dissolve.
Since the news of his son’s death, Chaplain Davies had been unusually subdued. The stark contrast between the lively comedian they had come to know and this quiet, withdrawn man was unsettling. No one begrudged him this time to mourn, but they had grown accustomed to his wit and humor and the camp wasn’t the same without it.
Jeremiah spotted the old man seated on the ground beneath the shade of an oak tree and went to join him. He squeezed Davies’ shoulder silently as he took a place beside him. There was no need for words. What could Jeremiah say to a man who had memorized the entire Bible? All he knew to do was offer his silent support.
There were others in the camp who had lost friends or loved ones, but this death seemed to affect them all. If anyone’s son should have been spared, it was this man of God who served with such joy and demonstrated love for everyone around him. If Chaplain Davies’ prayers weren’t effective to save his son, what hope did any of the sinners have?
Cullen dropped to the ground on the other side of Davies, crossing his legs in front of him. “You all right?” he asked the chaplain quietly. The stubble of a beard clung to his chin, a shadow that hadn’t darkened despite days without a razor.
Davies eyes glistened with tears even as he nodded, “I’m all right. I know I’ll see my son again.”
“What was his name?” Cullen asked.
“Danny.” Speaking his son’s name brought a wave of fresh grief. He cleared his throat before he continued, “He was thirty years old and left two sons behind. Before the war, he was a teacher.” The chaplain smiled tremulously. “He was a good man. I’m proud of him.”
Lowering his large frame to the grass, Phillips rested his elbows on his knees, a cigarette dangling from his lips beneath his mustache. “He was lucky to have you,” he mumbled gruffly. “Not every man can say that about his father.”
With a sad smile, Davies nodded his gratitude. Jeremiah thought fondly of his own father, and vowed to tell him how much he valued and respected him before it was too late.
Cullen, too young to know better, said whatever came to mind. “It’s a shame you can’t attend a funeral for him. I guess they buried him at the battle site?”
Jeremiah cringed as he imagined how painful this loss must be for Davies, fearing that such questions were like rubbing salt into the wound. But Davies only nodded. “They buried him in the hospital’s cemetery. Maybe one day I’ll go to see it.”
Usually cynical when it came to religious matters, Phillips leaned forward and asked in a hoarse whisper, “Chaplain, do you think God knows the name of every man who dies?”
“I do,” Davies replied certainly.
Cullen picked at a piece of lint on his white shirt, his smooth forehead wrinkled with thought. “Why does God allow all this senseless killing? I just don’t understand why He let your son die.”
Lifting his hand, wrinkled and spotted with age, to thumb a tear from his eye, Davies sighed. “I once had an answer to that question,” he admitted, “but I can’t remember now what it was.”
Phillips dropped the butt of his cigarette to the grass and extinguished it with the heel of his boot. “I don’t even know what all the killing is for. Some say it’s about keeping the Union together and some think it’s about setting the slaves free. I can’t even remember why I signed up,” he admitted.
When they first arrived in Virginia with Lockwood’s brigade in their Federal blue uniforms, wherever they camped as they marched southward down the peninsula, the slaves came to find them. The Negros had it in their heads that the soldiers were coming to liberate them and burn the houses of their masters. Of course, they had been gravely disappointed when they were sent back to their owners.
It had surprised Jeremiah how eager the Negros had seemed for their freedom. He hadn’t believed they were so discontented with their lot in life. Perhaps the slaves at Laurel Hill were an exception, or maybe he had chosen to believe what allowed him to have a clear conscience. In any case, he hadn’t heard any official talk of the war being for the purpose of ending slavery. The abolitionists would certainly push for it, but as far as Jeremiah knew, the President was only worried about keeping the South in the Union.
“My family owns slaves,” Cullen mused. “I wouldn’t have enlisted if I thought I was setting them free.”
“My family does too,” Phillips said. “I bet most of us here could say the same.”
Cullen looked to Jeremiah, who nodded as he admitted, “We do, though not many, and we always treated them very well.”
“What about you, Chaplain?” Cullen wondered.
Davies studied the boy’s sincere expression before answering carefully, “I did once. But I haven’t for a long time.”
“Why not?” Jeremiah prompted, knowing there was more to the answer.
“I don’t believe a person should be owned, like a horse or an ox. God created mankind, and I don’t read in Genesis that He made one race better than another,” he replied honestly.
“You don’t think that Negroes are like us, do you?” Phillips demanded, disgust clearly written on his face. “You can’t think they should be free, with the same rights as whites, to own property and vote?”
Without censure, the chaplain looked Phillips dead in the eye and replied, “Why not?”
“Because,” the soldier sputtered, “everyone knows they’re inferior to whites!”
“You prove it to me from the Bible and then I’ll believe it,” Davies challenged, his mouth drawn in a firm line.
Phillips huffed, crossing his arms and resting them on his knees. Everyone present knew that he wasn’t going to spend hours reading the Holy Scriptures in search of a proof text.
“If it looks like a person, thinks like a person, and talks like a person—it is a person,” Davies expounded. “If you’d been born with dark skin, it wouldn’t make you any less of a person than you are now. Just think about that,” he finished gently.
“You’re lucky I like you,” Phillips retorted, and Jeremiah sensed there was truth in it.
The impish gleam the men had missed returned to Davies’ eyes just for a second. “No, I’d say you’re lucky I like you,” he replied.
Their conversation was disrupted as the call went up that the mail carrier had arrived. Davies remained seated, as if he had no desire to receive another letter. Jeremiah followed the others to the makeshift Post Office.
Jeremiah waited as names were called, finally hearing “Turner!” he moved forward to receive the envelope. It was from Clara. He couldn’t remember the exact shade of her eyes, but he had memorized the way her letters sloped and curled just slightly at the end of a word, and the way she crossed her t’s and dotted her i’s. He could hardly recall what it felt like to hold her in his arms, but every time he read a letter from her he felt that same profound and mysterious connection he had once felt in her company.
Retreating to his tent to savor the letter in some semblance of privacy, Jeremiah lowered himself onto his cot. He had learned to identify Clara’s mood when she wrote based on the precision of her penmanship. If her letters slanted severely and she overlooked the use of punctuation, it meant she was feeling intense emotion as she wrote. He could hear her voice and the inflections of her tone as he read over her words.
His lips parted in surprise as he read that a missive had been received across enemy lines from his brother. Closing his eyes, Jeremiah offered up a prayer of gratitude for Charlie’s safety. He exhaled slowly, thankful that his brother had survived another battle and had taken the effort to send communication home.
“Everything all right?” Phillips asked as he ducked into the tent and saw the look on Jeremiah’s face.
“I just learned my brother’s safe. I didn’t know for sure.”
“Is he fighting?”
Jeremiah nodded.
“Where’s he stationed?”
“Virginia, on the Western Shore,” Jeremiah answered, rubbing a hand over his face. “But he’s fighting with the Rebels.”
Phillips’ eyes widened. “He’s a Rebel?” he repeated incredulously.
“I’m afraid so,” Jeremiah sighed, weighted down by the gravity of the situation.
“Sure hope our paths never cross,” Phillips echoed Jeremiah’s heartfelt conviction.