Chapter Twenty

Spring passed as quick as a blink and the summer heat and humidity descended upon Laurel Hill once again. The fields flourished with tall, green corn stalks and another season of canning vegetables began. Phoebe went on about her work, appearing unhindered by the infant wrapped around her midsection with a long strip of cloth. When both she and the child were soaked through with sweat, she let the child sleep on a blanket tucked inside a basket and put close to the window where a breeze could cool him.

In the last weeks before delivery, Phoebe had grown as large as a watermelon, her face and ankles swelling as if she had been stung by a dozen bees. Clara had never before seen a woman in the final stages of pregnancy, as most women remained at home and out of the public eye during that time. She had been mortified by the changes in her slender friend, who by the end was almost unrecognizable.

Phoebe didn’t complain, although an occasional sigh or groan revealed her discomfort as she waddled around the house or garden. Her dark skin glistened with sweat as she moved slowly about, her breathing heavy with the effort of propelling her uncommonly large body around. Occasionally she would lay a hand over the swollen protrusion of her abdomen, the fabric of her dress tight over the skin, and smile. “He sho’ is kicking today!” she would comment.

When the baby announced that he was ready to enter the world, Clara was unprepared to be part of the moment. Lena had been called upon to work with the men planting in the fields, taking over the role for Phoebe as she was too far along to be jostled about on the wooden buckboard of the wagon. Clara had taken Lena’s place assisting Phoebe with the laundry as Mamie was busy in the kitchen most of the day preparing for or cleaning up after meals.

Clara had insisted—quite forcefully—that she would perform the more difficult work of stirring the clothing in the steaming tub of lye soap and then transferring it to a second tub to be rinsed. She had assigned Phoebe the task of wringing the water from the clothes and hanging them on the line to dry. When Phoebe suddenly straightened and gripped her belly, Clara assumed the child had given her an especially hard kick.

But the wide-eyed fright in Phoebe’s eyes told her that this was something different. “I think that baby gonna come today,” she announced, closing her eyes as the contraction gripped her.

“I’ll get your Mama!” Clara cried, running to the kitchen and calling for Mamie at the top of her lungs.

“What all that fuss?” the plump Negro woman demanded, her lower lip protruding and her hands resting on her hips.

“I think it’s time,” Clara gasped out.

“All right. Calm down. Babies born all the time,” Mamie answered as she removed the pan from the stove and wiped her hands on her apron. “Supper gonna be late today,” she stated.

Clara fluttered nervously behind her as Mamie marched outside to the washtubs. Phoebe sat on a stool, sweat beading her upper lip as she ran her hands over her enormous abdomen. “Gonna have a grand-chile today, Mama,” she grinned.

Mamie patted her daughter’s shoulder and smiled. “Let’s get you into bed,” she ordered as she wrapped her arm around Phoebe’s thick waist and guided her toward the slave quarter. Clara hesitated, then followed, determined to help in any way she could.

She’d never been in the slave cabin before. She tried not to gawk in curiosity as she passed through the doorway into the small brick building. The first thing Clara noticed was how very small the space was, followed by the awareness of how sparsely it was furnished. A brick fireplace occupied the center of the far wall, which was roughly plastered to keep out the elements. Two makeshift cots, no more than wooden rectangles with ropes suspending a tick mattress, were positioned on either side of the room. A crude staircase led to the second level, where Clara presumed Eli, Lena and Silas slept. A small table with four chairs occupied the middle space. Light filtered in through glass windows on three sides of the cabin.

Mamie situated Phoebe on her bed, pulling back the woolen blankets to expose the white sheet beneath. Phoebe sat heavily on the mattress, which Clara noted was lumpy and unforgiving. Leaning back against the pillow, Phoebe closed her eyes and breathed slowly.

“I gonna go boil some water now,” Mamie told her. “Missus Clara gonna sit with you, all right?”

Phoebe opened her eyes and nodded. Clara pulled one of the straight-backed chairs next to the bed and took her place by Phoebe’s side. “What can I do for you?” she asked uncertainly.

“Just sit,” Phoebe smiled at her. “And try to relax! You makin’ me nervous!”

“Sorry,” Clara breathed as she relaxed her shoulders.

When Mamie arrived, she had brought back with her not only hot water, but towels and a very sharp knife. Clara tried not to stare at it as Mamie placed it on the table.

What followed was hours of grueling labor as the contractions gained in momentum and intensity, until finally Mamie instructed Phoebe to push. Clara had taken position by Phoebe’s head, leaving the end of the bed to her mother. She watched in horror as Phoebe grunted and strained, gnashing her teeth and rolling her eyes back in her head. After several such efforts, Mamie cried, “Here he comes!” and within seconds, was holding a slick little boy in her hands.

With skilled precision, she used the knife to severe the umbilical cord, wrapped the child in a towel and held him up for his mother to see. “It’s a boy!” she declared grandly before handing him off to Clara. “Wipe him down,” she ordered, “while we finish up here.”

Clara obeyed, taking the fragile newborn into her arms and carrying him to the table. She could hear Mamie coaching Phoebe to expel the afterbirth, but Clara kept her eyes averted and focused on the chore of tenderly cleaning the squalling babe and swaddling him in a fresh blanket.

By the time she had finished her work, Mamie was returning from outside where she had disposed of the dirty linens. Phoebe lay upon the bed, the blanket modestly covering her body, waiting impatiently to hold her hard-earned prize.

Clara carefully transferred the baby into his mother’s arms, noting the pride and joy which lit Phoebe’s black features. Her eyes caressed the infant lovingly as she studied his every detail. “Isn’t he beautiful?” she whispered.

Gazing down at the diminutive face with thick curling lashes and a button nose, pouting pink lips and dark chubby cheeks, she had to agree. He was beautiful.

“You done real good,” Mamie patted her daughter’s hand, white teeth gleaming in a broad grin. “What you gonna name him?”

“Henry say we can call him Joseph, after his grand-daddy,” Phoebe answered.

Mamie nodded, a tear glistening in her eye. “He like that,” she replied softly.

Clara came to her feet, feeling as if she was intruding on a private moment, and said, “I’ll go find Henry now and tell him he’s a father.”

But as she swung open the door, she saw that Henry already stood outside the cabin, hat crumpled in his hands and eyes round as saucers. “He’s a healthy boy, and his mama is doing just fine,” she assured him as she gestured for him to enter the cabin.

Mixed wonder and eagerness reflected in Henry’s face as he moved past her. Clara pulled the door closed behind him and stepped out into the cool evening air. She closed her eyes for just a moment, overwhelmed by all she had witnessed. A twinge of longing squeezed her heart for just a second as she heard Henry’s exclamation of delight, but she ignored the ache in her chest and went to the kitchen to procure a quick meal for the household.

~

Jeremiah dropped the newspaper onto the table and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the surface, head in his palms. In the last three months, between April and June, thirty-five battles had been fought. Casualties continued to grow, thousands of men losing their lives and just as many wounded or taken prisoner.

The world had fallen into dark chaos, and he worried that it would never again be able to find its way to the light.

The Confederacy could claim several victories in this string of battles, but the tide seemed to have turned for the Union. Reports came that the Rebels were running short on rations and their army was growing weak with starvation. Grant had sieged Vicksburg where the Confederate Army had retreated for safety, holding out for forty days until their supplies ran out and they were forced to surrender.

This decisive loss cut the Confederate Army off from the rest of their men in Arkansas, Louisiana and Texas, hindering communication with forces in Missouri and Indian Territory as well. It bolstered the confidence of the Federal troops, strengthened with fresh conscripts.

The best Jeremiah could figure, Charlie was stationed under General Jones in the Valley of Virginia. He’d read that the First Maryland Infantry, CSA had mustered out and the Second Maryland Infantry (also called the First Maryland Infantry Battalion) had been formed with many veterans of the First as well as other Southern units, and a handful of fresh recruits. Charlie’s name had yet to appear on any casualty lists, so Jeremiah held out hope that he was both alive and well.

Jeremiah desperately wished there was a way to smuggle a letter across enemy lines to his brother, to let Charlie know where he was and how he was doing. And above all, to let Charlie know how much he still loved him.

He wondered how much fighting his brother had seen and what scars he carried, inside and out, from the battles he had known. Jeremiah almost felt ashamed that his regiment had served for a year and a half without a single engagement. Of course, he kept such regrets to himself when writing letters home. He was fairly certain his wife and father would never understand such feelings.

Clara had written that Phoebe delivered a son, and that Lena was obligated to take over watering the corn as it was planted. Whenever he thought about how hard they were working at home while he did nothing more than mark time by drilling, playing cards, and talking, he felt like a failure. He had wanted to be a brave soldier but had ended up as nothing more than a man in uniform.

“Is it really that bad?” he heard Chaplain Davies ask as he joined him at the table.

Jeremiah lifted his head from his hands. “No, not really. Just reading about another battle. Seems like that’s all there is to read about anymore.”

“That’s why I quit reading the paper,” Davies quipped. “No good stories in there.”

Jeremiah offered the old man a half-smile. “It’s really because you’re too busy reading the Good Book to read anything else.”

“Well,” the chaplain admitted, “the stories are a lot better. And I know who wins that battle. ‘So when this corruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal has put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.’”

“I’m going to be honest,” Phillips pulled out a chair and spun it around, sitting on it backwards with elbows folded across the back and a cigarette dangling from his lips. “His head just doesn’t look big enough to hold all them verses.”

“I’m going to be honest,” Cullen chimed in as he flopped down to join them. “I have no idea what he’s talking about half the time.”

Phillips and Jeremiah laughed as they admitted simultaneously, “Neither do we!”

“Allow me to enlighten you,” Davies proclaimed with a flourish, his wrinkled face forming an impish grin. “’If the dead do not rise, then Christ is not risen. And if Christ is not risen, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins! Then also those who have fallen asleep in Christ have perished. If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men the most pitiable.’”

Chuckling, Cullen shook his head. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about, Reverend, but don’t let it worry you. Maybe you have more brains in that little head than I do.”

“That’s a distinct possibility,” the chaplain agreed, a twinkle in his eye.

“Now I think I’m suddenly remembering a verse that says, ‘Pride goes before a fall,’” Jeremiah pointed a finger condemningly at Davies, who only laughed in reply.

“That’s actually not a verse,” he shrugged, “but you’re pretty close. It says: ‘Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.‘”

“I’ve had about enough of this guy,” Phillips leaned forward to grab a tin cup of water resting on the table. “I think his big brain needs cooling off,” he declared, pulling off the chaplain’s cap and pouring the water over his balding head.

“Hey!” Davies sputtered, water dripping down his chin.

He started to say something smart, but a ruckus on the other side of the camp drowned out his words. As one, they all sprang to their feet and dashed down the dirt streets to the source of the commotion.

Westbrook, the resident boxing champion, was pounding a smaller man by the name of Wilson with his over-sized fists. The unfortunate recipient of this outburst tried to rally a defensive stance, but met with another blow before he could gain his footing. Wilson swung haphazardly at his opponent, his fist hooking the air as Westbrook easily sidestepped the punch. With a throaty growl, the muscular private landed an uppercut to Wilson’s chin, sending him reeling backward to the ground.

When Westbrook jumped on the fallen man to continue the beating, Wilson’s friends intervened and took hold of the larger man, grabbing him by his thick biceps and pulling him back. One especially outraged soldier took the opportunity to land a firm right hook to Westbrook’s chiseled chin, and was lucky when his friends were able to contain the revenge Westbrook had planned for him. More men jumped into the fray, pinning this brazen fellow back and shouting for the fighting to stop.

Sudden silence fell as Colonel Keene appeared on the scene. “What is the meaning of this?” he bellowed. He pointed a finger at the three men who had clearly been engaged in the misconduct. “You, you, and you, come with me. Now.” He turned on his heel and marched away, confident the belligerents would follow.

“Everybody’s itching for a brawl,” Phillips muttered as he watched three men follow the Colonel to his office to receive their punishment. “Sitting around here like a bunch of old biddies at a quilting bee is bound to make a man testy.”

“Well, we were needing new latrines dug. Guess I know who just volunteered for that,” Davies commented.

Often called “sinks,” the latrines were merely ditches dug ten to twelve feet long and about two feet wide, and six to eight feet deep. Suspended over this ditch was a board with holes cut in it to be used as seats. Each day, six inches of dirt along with carbolic acid or chlorinated lime were thrown over the waste to cover and deodorize the stench. When the latrine was filled to within two feet from the edge, it was topped off and a new sink dug for the men’s necessary functions. The latrine was disguised by a small mound of brush to afford minimal privacy.

Cullen leaned in close to whisper, “I can’t say who I heard it from, but I heard that Colonel Wallace has written to the powers that be requesting duty at the front. Now, I don’t know if it’s true or if they’ll call on us, but that’s what I heard.”

“Duty at the front?” Phillips repeated, his eyes brightening at the prospect. “The front lines?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m not in a hurry to get killed and I don’t know why you should be. I just want this war to end so I can get home,” Cullen said. His smooth jaw clenched as he patted the picture of Emily he carried in his chest pocket.

Phillips’ mustache twitched. “If you can’t tell me who you heard it from, how do I know if it’s reliable information?” he demanded.

“I told you I don’t know if it’s true or not. Just letting you know it’s a possibility. I for one hope it isn’t true,” he repeated.

Jeremiah and Davies exchanged glances. If it was true, their peaceful respite was about to come to an end and their muskets, bayonets and ceaseless drilling would soon fulfill their purposes.