Baby Joseph was three months old, with round cheeks and intelligent brown eyes. Whenever spoken to, he broke into a wide grin revealing pink toothless gums. If ignored for too long, Little Joe would remind the women of his presence with high pitched gurgling, quickly escalating into an angry wail if they failed to respond in a timely manner.
Mamie instructed the younger women that if they catered to him every time he set up to howling, Little Joe would never learn how to soothe himself. But Clara hated the way his cries pulled at her heartstrings, touched by the fear of abandonment she could hear in those plaintive wails. Phoebe sometimes gave his belly a little pat as he lay in the basket to let him know that she was close by, but she followed her mother’s orders and let him fuss when she knew all his needs had been met.
Clara was the only one who dared disobey Mamie. Lena often looked at the basket containing the unhappy baby with longing eyes, but did not leave her work to hold him unless instructed. Sometimes those lusty cries were more than Clara could ignore, and she would scoop the boy up and hold him close to her chest, humming a song as she swayed back and forth to quiet him.
Feeling his soft skin against her cheek as his screams transitioned to coos brought comfort to her own aching heart. There were times when Clara wished she could be a child again, able to climb onto her mother’s lap and let something as simple as a hug and song take away the pain she felt.
In his last letter, Jeremiah had warned her there was a possibility he could be sent to the front. “I don’t want you to worry,” he wrote, “but I do want you to be prepared should it happen. If we are called up, I will try to get word to you as soon as possible. As far as I can tell at the moment, it’s only gossip.”
Every time she began to consider the likelihood that he would be sent into battle, she told herself sternly: “Don’t waste your energy worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet. Today has enough to worry about.”
But at night when she slept the demons of fear wreaked havoc with her imagination, producing nightmares in which she and Jane both wore the heavy crepe veil and taffeta mourning dress. In these horrible dreams, which felt every bit as real as her waking moments, she saw the announcement of her husband’s death and felt the word “widow” strike her heart with pain as piercing as the spear of an arrow.
Jane had taken the lock of hair Jeremiah sent and formed it into a pair of teardrop-shaped earrings. Clara had thought it was pure sentimental nonsense, but once on her ears, she found herself touching them often and feeling a strange sense of connection with the husband she had not seen in almost eighteen months.
In these terrible nightmares, the jewelry formed from Jeremiah’s hair seemed to have a life and spirit of its own. They pulsed with a strange and ghostly presence, as if he had taken up residence in them. It was a hollow and empty feeling to know that these little snips of hair and a stack of letters were all she had left of him.
In the morning she awoke with a gasp of relief upon realizing that it wasn’t real. As far as she had reason to believe, Jeremiah was still safely stationed at Oak Hall, alive and thinking of her. But that niggling finger of doubt pressed sharply into her side, reminding her that just because she hadn’t received word didn’t mean it hadn’t already happened. Or might still happen.
When his father read the warning Jeremiah sent, Francis’ leathery skin formed into a deeply grooved frown, his coarse white eyebrows sprouting out over shadowed eyes. “We knew it was a possibility the day he left,” he reminded Clara gravely. “He’s been lucky so far.”
Excitement rippled through the camp. As Jeremiah ran to his cabin to pack his haversack and prepare for departure, he felt it charging through him. Around him, everyone raced to follow orders, some anticipating the battle to come, others dreading it, and many unable to think beyond the moment.
Hastily Jeremiah removed his writing kit and scratched a letter to his wife. He had not been informed exactly where they were headed, only that they were going north to reinforce troops in Pennsylvania. They would take a steamer across the bay to Baltimore, then travel some of the distance by rail and march the rest of the way on foot.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making the pencil in his hands jerk as it quickly formed the words on the paper. There was no way of knowing what they would face when they reached the front, if they would immediately be thrown into the fray or if the battle would have already been decided before they arrived. But Jeremiah knew there was a chance this could be the last letter he ever sent to Clara, and he wrote it as if it was.
“My Dearest Clara, We are being called up to active duty on the front. We leave immediately. I hope this letter will reach you before I arrive at the battlefield in Pennsylvania. Pray for me, my sweet wife, that I may fight courageously and return safely home to you. I have little time, but I feel I must try to put my feelings into words in case that is not possible. I remember the days of our courtship and marriage as if it was a faraway dream, the best days of my life. I carry you in my heart and am confident that nothing can destroy the powerful bond we share. Whatever comes, remember that I love you with all I am. Never forget, my sweet Clara. Longing to see your face again, Jeremiah.”
“You comin’, Turner?” Cullen asked, rolling his blanket into a cylinder shape and attaching it to his knapsack. He looked up at Jeremiah with round, frightened eyes hiding behind a front of bravado.
“Yeah, just finishing this letter to my wife. I want to get it to the Post Office before I run out of time,” he said as he darted for the door of the cabin, rushing down the street through a beehive of frantic activity as the camp was broken down and organized for departure.
“Can you get this out?” he demanded breathlessly as he crashed into the makeshift building and slapped the letter on the counter.
The young man accepted the letter from him and nodded. “Don’t worry. You aren’t the only one trying to get a last minute message home. We’ll get it delivered.”
“Thank you,” Jeremiah breathed sincerely, spinning on his heel and rushing back to the field for roll call before they moved out.
Today they were soldiers, lined up in their blue uniforms with their weapons ready for more than merely drills. Jeremiah’s heart thumped in his chest as he took his place, musket in his right hand with the barrel resting in the hollow of his shoulder, ready for orders. There was a difference in their posture, backs straight and heads erect, held high with respect for themselves. No longer frauds and imposters, they were finally soldiers.
Clara held her apron out in front of her to carry the cucumbers and tomatoes she collected from the garden. Sweat trickled down her temples and moistened the back of her blue cotton dress. Phoebe worked beside her, humming a tune. On the porch, Lena kept an eye on Little Joe, a basket of mending in her lap.
Although it was early in the morning and the sun had yet to reach its zenith, the July heat was already unbearable. Wearing a broad straw hat to protect her face, Clara gathered the produce to be added to the menu for the day. She was grateful for the fresh vegetables even if she didn’t enjoy the task of collecting them. Not everyone had the ability to grow their own food, and as the war continued without end in sight, many families in Centreville felt the pinch of the growing economic strain.
Even if Francis had been able to free his slaves, he wouldn’t have been able to pay their wages. For now, things would have to continue as they had been, but Clara knew it wouldn’t go on this way for much longer. Sooner or later, the war would have to end and even if the South was able to successfully break away from the Union—which Clara found doubtful—slavery in Maryland would surely be abolished.
She was glad they had never mentioned their desire to free Old Joe and his family, as it would have certainly proven a disappointment and may have planted seeds of resentment in their minds. Glancing sideways at Phoebe as she stooped down to search for ripe tomatoes near the ground, Clara wondered how Phoebe really felt about being held as property, without rights and without a will of her own. Even though they were treated well, they weren’t free. And how could anyone be content with that?
“Phoebe,” she said, straightening and walking to the basket at the edge of the garden to deposit the produce in her apron, “are you happy here?”
Coming to an abrupt halt, the young woman studied Clara’s face carefully. She stood, one hand holding onto her full apron and the other resting on her hip, as slim as it had been before the baby. “What you mean, Missus Clara? Why you askin’ me that?”
“I’m sorry, I guess I was just thinking out loud,” Clara quickly knelt down and returned to her work.
“I’s happy enough, I reckon,” Phoebe answered cautiously. “You… You ain’t thinkin’ of sending me away, is you?” she worried.
“Oh, heavens no!” Clara sprang to her feet, regretting that she had placed such doubt in her friend’s mind. “Never! I was only asking because I want you to be happy here. You’ve been such a comfort to me.”
The wrinkles which had formed in Phoebe’s brown forehead smoothed out and a smile replaced her frown. “Don’t you worry, Missus Clara, I right where I want to be.”
Clara offered a grateful smile in reply, but her thoughts were churning. Laurel Hill was home to Phoebe. It was where she had been born and raised, and this life of slavery was all she had ever known. Perhaps all one could do in any situation—whether bondage or loss—was accept it and make the best of it, as her sister was now trying to do.
Jane was no longer in full mourning and was free to go without the dark veil in public. She had traded her black dress in for one of dove gray and joined the Ladies Aide Society, knitting socks and rolling bandages to be sent to soldiers in need. Jane was learning how to live with her grief and it was a relief to hear her laugh again and see the spark of joy return to her eyes.
“I think that’s ‘bout it,” Phoebe commented, holding one last ripe tomato in her hand. “Let’s get out of this sun.”
Clara nodded her agreement, wiping her hands on her apron. “A glass of water would be nice,” she said, hoisting one of the baskets onto her hip and leaving the other for Phoebe.
Just then, the door opened and Francis emerged onto the back porch. His face was solemn as he walked toward her. “Letter arrived,” he announced, extending the envelope.
Clara quickly lowered the basket to the ground and accepted the letter, knowing it must be from Jeremiah. Francis stood watching as she opened the envelope with trembling hands, his eyes reflecting the same worry she felt.
Since the war had scattered men all over the nation, an increase in the volume of mail had led to the Post Office delivering letters to homes rather than holding them for pick-up. It was a convenience which Clara appreciated, as it guaranteed she would know as soon as a letter arrived rather than having to send someone to ask after it.
As she unfolded the paper and noticed the unusually sloppy handwriting, a cold knot of fear clenched in her stomach. Clara’s eyes scanned over the words, her heart slowing to a painful thud as she realized that this missive was written in the same spirit as the one Louis had pinned inside his uniform. It was the kind of letter written by a soldier going into battle, knowing he might not survive.
She handed the page to her father-in-law, though the content of the letter was easy to guess from her reaction. Closing her eyes, Clara breathed slowly. God, keep him safe! she prayed. Keep him safe!
“Sit down,” Francis ordered, taking her by the elbow and leading her up the steps and onto the porch. Once Clara was settled on the divan, he took the place beside her and scanned his son’s hastily written message.
“Pennsylvania…” he repeated quietly.
“Do you know where he’s going?” she worried, eyes searching his intently.
Francis nodded grimly. “There’s fighting at Gettysburg.”