Chapter Seventeen

Colonel Wallace agreed to grant Chaplain Davies furlough to visit his son. Jeremiah convinced Phillips and Cullen to accompany him to the Colonel’s office to request that the chaplain be given time to visit his family during this time of grief. Davies had been touched by their consideration for him and was eager to leave for Brandywine, Maryland where his son lived with his wife and children.

Resting his hand on Jeremiah’s sleeve, Davies lifted his chin to look Jeremiah in the eyes. “That was a nice thing you did. I can’t wait to see my grandchildren and have a taste of normal life. But I won’t be gone too long, I promise. Somebody’s got to keep you boys in line!”

Davies had been sent off with slaps on the back and words of encouragement and affection. Even the men who ridiculed him seemed to regret his departure and the absence of Sunday services while he was away.

Jeremiah wished he could be given furlough to visit home. He’d received word from Clara that Jane’s fiancé had been killed in battle and that she was not bearing up very well. He wished he could be there to offer comfort to his sister-in-law, and to affirm to his wife that he was safe and his love for her had not been compromised by their separation.

In the wake of Lincoln’s letter in the Tribune stating, “If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it,” the President had issued a threat to the states of the rebellion. If they did not surrender and rejoin the Union within one hundred days, on the first of January, 1863, he would issue the Emancipation Proclamation. This law would be issued under the authority of his war powers and would free all slaves within the named regions, and would additionally allow colored men to join the Union Army and receive payment as a soldier in the United States Armed Forces.

“I guess Lincoln decided he had to free some of the slaves in order to save the Union,” Phillips commented as he exhaled a gray cloud of cigarette smoke. “At least it won’t affect the slave-holding states still in the Union.”

“Well, if the Confederacy raises the white flag, it sounds like they’d get to keep their slaves. Maybe they’ll capitulate and let us all go home,” Cullen added hopefully.

Jeremiah smoothed a hand over his beard as he considered this turn of events. “I don’t think they’ll fall into that trap, Cullen. The abolitionists will never let them keep their slaves permanently. It’s just a warning. Lincoln’s changing the stakes of the war. We’re not fighting just to preserve the Union anymore—it’s about slavery now. His letter in the Tribune made it clear that he would do whatever he felt necessary to preserve the Union, even if it meant freeing the slaves. So this is his new angle. If he turns the war into a moral issue, a fight to set the slaves free, he’ll have all the abolitionists on his side. His Northern supporters were running out of patriotic fervor, and this will give them a renewed zeal for the fight.”

“Well, I didn’t sign up for that!” Phillips declared emphatically. “It’s not fair to change the game on us now!”

“Haven’t you ever heard ‘All is fair in love and war’?” Jeremiah returned wryly.

“Just ‘cause I heard it don’t mean I agree with it,” Philips retorted. “I signed on for three years of military service to save the Union. Nobody said anything about fighting to free the coloreds!”

“Why don’t you write the President and tell him so?” Cullen retorted, slumping wearily. “Our job is say ‘Yes Sir’ and fire on command. No one cares what we think.”

Jeremiah thought of Louis Bland and the thousands like him killed at the Battle of Antietam. They were merely pawns on the political chess board, moved at will by those in authority over them, replaced when they were knocked over by the enemy. Nameless and faceless, they were the means by which the political powers acted out their objectives.

In July, a second Revenue Act had been approved. The first hadn’t provided sufficient funds for the continuation of the war, and so further action had been taken. A new office had been created specifically for the collection of taxes, called the Commissioner of Internal Revenue. And, in addition to levying taxes on every day goods and services, this act adjusted the income tax imposed under the previous years’ Revenue Act.

Under the new law, the percentage of income tax varied according to the amount of income earned. It was a progressive rate, forcing those with more money to pay more in taxes. There were three basic categories: anyone with an annual income of less than six hundred dollars was exempt; those with incomes between six hundred and ten thousand dollars were taxed three percent of their earnings; and those with incomes greater than ten thousand were taxed at five percent.

Essentially, the citizens of the United States were not only being called upon to provide manpower for the war, they were also being required to provide funding for it, even when the goals of that war were arbitrarily changed without their consent. Deserters were shot, and those who tried to avoid the draft were arrested. As Lincoln had suspended habeas corpus nationwide, authorities could imprison anyone for any reason.

“Damn both the Yankees and the Rebels,” Phillips punctuated his curse by spitting vehemently, wiping stray spittle from his mustache with his sleeve. “And damn this war!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Cullen lifted an imaginary glass. Jeremiah shared the sentiment, as did most of the men in his regiment.

In the still of the night, the only sounds those of insects chirping outside his tent, Jeremiah’s thoughts returned to this idea of Lincoln legally freeing all the slaves of the Rebel states. It was the first move on the chess board toward the eventual end of the domestic institution known as “slavery” in America. First it would only affect the Rebel states, but eventually, legislation would be passed to force the emancipation of slaves throughout the Union.

If the President did in fact “wish that all men everywhere could be free,” he would use the authority granted him to work around those of opposing views in Congress and in the public to ensure that this goal was achieved.

If Maryland had successfully seceded, then on January first of 1863, Old Joe, Mamie and all their children would have been set free. Clara had indicated in her letter that Phoebe was expecting a child in the spring. By law, that child would be born a slave since Maryland was retained as part of the Union.

Growing up, no one had convinced Jeremiah that black skin made a person inferior to those with white skin. He had observed it daily in the world around him. It was the way of things, acted out at home and throughout the Eastern Shore where he roamed. He had not questioned the rightness of it, accepting it as the social order decreed by his ancestors for a reason.

Now he began to consider the possibility that those who had gone before him had erred in their assumption that one race was lesser in value than another. As Chaplain Davies had pointed out, a human being, regardless of skin color, remained a human being made by the Creator God.

The Northern states had, one at a time, voted to end slavery. Jeremiah had heard it argued that it was a matter of practicality: the Northern states were industrial while the Southern states were agricultural and had need of slave labor. Negroes were predisposed to be laborers, due to their greater strength and limited intelligence.

If this were true, what did the freedmen of the North do? How did they survive? It didn’t seem fair to assume the Negro race could be no more than common laborers while at the same time depriving them of an education. It made them appear to be lacking in intelligence, when perhaps what they lacked was opportunity.

Jeremiah shifted on his cot, uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts. One day, he was certain, President Lincoln would decree the end of slavery. If that was to be, did Jeremiah wish to wait until it was forced upon him or choose to offer it to the Negroes at Laurel Hill of his own good will?

The fundamental question which all these arguments boiled down to was this: did the Negro race deserve to be free or should they rightfully be held in bondage? As he pictured the black faces of the slaves at Laurel Hill, the loyalty reflected in Old Joe’s eyes and the kindness he saw in Mamie’s, Jeremiah knew the answer in his heart.

~

Clara had asked Jeremiah to send her a snip of his hair, explaining Jane’s new fascination with the art of hair jewelry. She had hoped this new pastime would draw Jane outside of herself, but it merely offered another form of preoccupation. Every time Clara came to visit, having reduced her schedule to twice a week, she found Jane silently standing at the tall, round table, engrossed in the process of weaving thin strands of hair into basket weave, chain, or snake patterns to be made into earrings, brooches, bracelets, lockets, or necklaces. She had advertised her new hobby to the local women, who had eagerly surrendered their own hair, or that of their husbands or children, to be converted into a keepsake piece.

Jane was so intent on her work that it was next to impossible to draw her into conversation. She took the mission very seriously, as if preserving mementos of others’ loved ones was her only reason for living. Naomi took up residence on the sofa and occupied herself with needlework while offering silent companionship to her youngest daughter.

Stepping onto the porch for a moment of privacy with her mother, Clara asked, “Aren’t you worried about Jane? I had hoped she would be back to herself soon, but I see no sign of her.”

“Everyone grieves in their own way,” Naomi replied calmly, “and this is her way.”

“Well, how long do you think it will take her?” Clara wondered impatiently.

Her mother’s soft brown eyes studied Clara for a moment before she answered with a gentle reprimand in her voice, “Everyone has their own timing, dear.”

Clara bit her tongue before the words in her head passed her lips. Moping never did anyone any good.

Naomi produced a handkerchief from her lavender bell-shaped sleeve, patting the perspiration from her brow as she continued, “You and your sister are so close, and yet you are so very different. Jane isn’t like you, Clara. She feels everything more deeply, and expresses it more openly. She can’t bury her feelings inside and pretend she doesn’t feel them. She wears them on her sleeve.”

Properly chastised, Clara bowed her head. “I don’t mean to be unfair or impatient with her. I just feel like she’s wasting away with her grief instead of healing from it.”

“This is her way of healing. Just give her time,” Naomi lifted Clara’s chin, her expression kind but firm. The worry lines around her eyes and the gray streaking her hair reminded Clara that her mother had seen much more of life than she had. “Until you walk in someone else’s shoes, you don’t know how they will fit you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Clara answered contritely.

That evening at her vanity, working the ivory handled brush through her auburn hair with slow methodic strokes, Clara reflected on her mother’s words. The flickering light cast by the oil lamp left the corners of the room thick with shadows, and in the mirror, Clara could see the reflection of her silhouette cast across the wedding ring quilt. The bed was empty without her husband in it, dark head upon the pillow, waiting for her.

This was the loneliest time of the day, when she had nothing to distract her from her thoughts but the exhaustion pulling her down into slumber. Tonight the gray fog refused to come, leaving her to face the voice of fear she worked so hard to quiet.

As she did every night, Clara offered up prayers for her mother and father, Eddy and Jane, Francis, Charlie, and especially Jeremiah. She comforted herself with the reminder that her husband was well away from the fighting, relegated to guard duty on Virginia’s Eastern Shore. The truth was that she had learned to fight her fear of losing Jeremiah with that knowledge as her weapon.

But what if he was stationed elsewhere, sent into battle? What if she was forced to one day walk in the shoes of mourning?

Clara rolled onto her side, curling into a ball with her knees tucked into her chest. On the white pillow beside her, she imagined her husband’s sleeping form. She could see his chiseled features cast in shadow, the strong nose, dark lashes fanning across his cheeks, and the thick beard which covered his cheeks and chin. A tear slipped from her eye and dampened the pillow under her cheek. “I love you,” she whispered to this memory.

With morning came fresh resolve to keep her chin up and her eyes dry. Joining her father-in-law at the breakfast table, she helped herself to a short stack of Mamie’s flapjacks and a link of sausage.

“You remember that Crittenden-Johnson Resolution?” Francis barked, his thick white eyebrows drawn together fiercely.

Clara had grown used to his brusque ways, accepting that she had become a sort of substitute for his sons. “I think so,” she answered, trying to remember the details.

“It states that the strict purpose of this idiotic war is to preserve the Union. Now Lincoln’s determined it necessary to the war effort to free the slaves of the South if the Rebels will not drop their weapons and apologize for their actions by the first of the year. If they don’t—and they won’t—he will emancipate them all.”

“All the slaves?” Clara tried to imagine what this would look like.

“Only the slaves of the Rebel states. Not the slaves in Maryland, Delaware, Kentucky or Missouri. We’re spared because we’re still in the Union.”

“I don’t understand how this helps his cause,” Clara admitted.

“The Confederate Army relies on slave labor to cook their meals, mend their clothes, dig their entrenchments, and harvest their crops back home. Once they’re freed, the Negroes can not only leave their masters, they can join the Union Army and increase its numbers. And, perhaps even more critical, Jefferson Davis has appealed to France and Britain to recognize the Confederacy as a sovereign nation. Lincoln’s shifting the focus to slavery because both of these nations have already abolished the practice and would be criticized internationally for supporting the South if it’s associated with slavery.”

“But why should any foreign nation wish to get involved? And why would they side with the Confederacy?”

Francis tugged at his cotton shirt pointedly. “The South is called ‘King Cotton.’ They export their goods all over the world.”

“But who will take care of the slaves if they have no masters?” Clara worried.

“Either the government will or they’ll have to learn how to fend for themselves,” Francis downed his coffee in a gulp. “And since this is supposed to be a war measure, what will happen after the war ends, I’d like to know. He can’t take the slaves’ freedom back, and I don’t think the abolitionists will let the four slave-holding border states get away with keeping theirs. He’ll have to set them free nationwide.”

Clara nibbled her sausage, which had grown cold as she conversed. “If we have no slaves, how will we work the farm?”

“The Northern farmers have a practice called share-cropping. Freedmen or white tenants work allotted acres and are allowed to keep a percentage of their crops. The land belongs to the farmer, but these share-croppers work it for them to make their own living,” he sighed, forking a generous bite of flapjacks into his mouth.

“Is that what we would do?”

“I don’t see what other choice we’d have,” Francis answered grimly. “But nothing’s happened yet. We just have to wait and see how it all plays out.”

The South had proven to be a worthy foe, fighting with spunk and valor despite being disadvantaged in terms of monetary resources and weapons, as well as being sorely outnumbered. No one had expected the war to last this long. The future was anybody’s guess.

Clara wondered if Old Joe and his family kept abreast of the political developments and if they knew a possibility existed—however slim—that they might one day be no longer slaves, but free men and women.

From the dining room window, she could see the acres of fields stretching out around Laurel Hill, green with corn. Behind the house was the vegetable garden and the peach orchard, and pens for hogs, chickens, and turkeys. Clara hadn’t been born a Turner. She had married into the family, into the inheritance of Laurel Hill, and yet she felt a sense of ownership because of the love she held for it.

How much more did Old Joe and Mamie feel invested in this farm? They had poured sweat equity into the land, calling it home, giving it all they had. Was it fair for them to always work it, but never own even a blade of grass or a stalk of corn?

As Mamie bustled into the dining room to inquire if they needed anything from the kitchen before she began collecting dishes, Clara realized something. Right or wrong, she wanted them set free.

Mamie leaned her ample hip against the table as she offered a cheerful smile, her cheeks round as apples and her teeth white as china against her midnight skin. On her head, a scarlet turban bobbed with her movements. “You want I can warm that sausage for you, Missus Clara. Don’t look like you hardly touched it.”

“No thank you, Mamie,” Clara declined graciously, “I’ve had enough.”

“All right then, but you need to get a little meat back on them bones,” Mamie retorted as she took the Wedgewood plate from the table.

Clara smiled fondly at the concern she could hear behind the criticism. She remembered the day she had fallen in love with Jeremiah. Mamie had dropped ham slices en route to the kitchen to be served at the party, and he had been more worried about the scrapes on the slave woman’s hands than the loss of the food. Jeremiah had even disposed of the evidence so no one needed to know about Mamie’s accident.

She wished she could talk to him about her desire to free the family’s slaves, but even though Jeremiah had always encouraged her interest in politics and farming, Clara feared this would be overstepping her bounds. When she remembered the affection in his voice as he helped Mamie to her feet and studied her palms, she knew Jeremiah would feel the same as she did.

But what about her father-in-law? How would they ever convince him?