Chapter Thirty
“Did my father put you up to this?” Jeremiah wondered aloud as he sat across from Clara in the carriage.
She appeared nervous as she replied, “No, it was my own doing.” Her delicate hands knotted in the lap of her full lavender skirt.
“Why didn’t you talk to me about it first?” Jeremiah absently rubbed the end of his amputated arm beneath the pinned-up sleeve of his coat where the nerves tingled and burned.
“I thought it might be best for you to see it for yourself. I had only heard about it, and couldn’t have answered your questions the way Abigail’s cousin could.”
Silently contemplating Clara’s soft-spoken reply, Jeremiah let out a heavy sigh. Her eyes watched him tentatively, like a dog afraid of being kicked by its master. He had wounded her spirit in Gettysburg, and it would take time and intention to earn back her trust.
“Well, it is a fascinating invention,” he admitted, aware that he would have protested and argued had she suggested an interview with Judson Shepherd instead of taking it upon herself to ensure the meeting happened.
“Are you upset with me?” she worried, a crease forming between her finely arched eyebrows.
How could he be, when it was obvious that everything she did for him was driven by love? “No, sweetheart,” he assured her. “I’m glad you introduced us, and I think I would like to have an apparatus like that myself. All my life I never realized how valuable it was to have two hands,” Jeremiah realized. “I took so much for granted…” Not just my health, but my family.
Pushing down boyhood memories of his brother, Jeremiah redirected the conversation. “Jane is looking well,” he commented.
“Yes,” Clara agreed. “She seems to have found a way to live with her loss.”
Is that what she thinks I need to do? If it was only the hand he had to learn to live without, that would have been challenging enough. The greater loss was of the man he had considered his closest friend for life, and it was that particular loss which Jeremiah couldn’t find a way to live with.
“I’m thankful she’s doing better,” he replied, unsure what more could be said.
“I’m glad we had the opportunity to meet Abigail and Judson. I think I should like to spend more time with both of them,” she added as a by-the-way.
Jeremiah suspected that she did, in fact, have a sincere desire to be friends with the young woman, but he also deduced that Clara was encouraging his friendship with Judson out of a wifely concern for his well-being. Not only did she want him to obtain the means to be physically independent again, she wanted him to find a way back to himself.
He appreciated Clara’s concern, as well as her efforts to make suggestions rather than ultimatums. She was stumbling her own way through this new life as blindly as he was, each of them trying to find a path that would lead to healing. The difference, however, was that Jeremiah wasn’t convinced such a path existed.
That night, he was grateful for her presence beside him in the bed at last. Clara curled onto her side, her long auburn braid falling across her shoulder, hand tucked beneath her cheek. Within seconds, her breathing evened out and he knew she slept. He watched her for some time, grateful to be alive and with her at Laurel Hill.
He was unaware when he fell asleep. All Jeremiah knew was that suddenly he was standing on that wretched hillside again, noise exploding painfully in his ears. His vision was obscured by gray smoke, and the gunshots around him reverberated through the hillside until the ground shook under his feet. Through the mist which hovered over the landscape, the shadows of Confederate soldiers glided like ghosts. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt his finger squeeze the trigger, followed by the kick of the recoiling musket against his shoulder.
Then, like an apparition, three men materialized out of the smoke. The clang of steel against rock grabbed Jeremiah’s attention, and he turned to see Cullen jerk from the impact of a bullet as it penetrated his heart. His expression registered shock as he met Jeremiah’s gaze, then the light went out of his eyes and he collapsed lifelessly upon the ground.
Jeremiah gritted his teeth and prepared to repay a life for life as the Rebels ducked behind the safety of a tree trunk. Oblivious of everything else, he stared intently at that tree, determined to make this shot count.
But when the soldier came into view, his heart caught in his throat. He could hardly believe his eyes. Beneath that gray cap was a face he knew better than his own, a face he had seen every day for most of his life.
He saw his brother take aim and he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Charlie, NO!” Then pain ripped through his hand, white-hot and searing.
Gasping for breath, Jeremiah realized he was sitting upright in his bed at Laurel Hill, drenched in sweat. His wife sat beside him, hand on his shoulder. She asked the question again and it took a moment for her words to penetrate the echo inside his skull.
“Are you all right?” her voice was frightened, and Jeremiah felt shame add to the fear which flushed his cheeks.
He wanted to answer, “Yes,” but he was short of breath and his heart felt as though it were trying to hammer through his ribcage. Instead, he reached for Clara and drew her close, clinging to her for strength and comfort.
“Please tell me,” she begged, tears wetting her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I need to know. What happened?”
Raising the stump of his arm, Jeremiah answered raggedly, “It was Charlie.”
“I don’t understand,” Clara whispered in confusion.
“In Gettysburg. It was Charlie who shot me.”
“Charlie?” she gasped, shaking her head in shocked disbelief.
Jeremiah swallowed down the lump in his throat. “The First Maryland Infantry of the Confederate States Army was there, at the bottom of the hill. I didn’t know it was them. I saw the Rebel flag, and I prayed that Charlie wasn’t down there. We were positioned at the top of the hill, behind a breastworks of rocks and timber, firing down into the smoke-filled woods. I couldn’t see anything, I just kept firing. Then suddenly there he was…
“He saw me, Clara. He knew it was me. He lowered his barrel to shoot my hand. Charlie shot me on purpose…” his voice trailed off as he tried to grasp the horrible reality, his mind still not comprehending it.
“Are you sure?” she asked as if hoping he would answer with uncertainty.
Jeremiah nodded wearily. “It was Charlie.”
“But are you sure he meant to shoot you?” she doubted.
For the thousandth time, Jeremiah relived the scene in his mind. With absolute confidence he answered, “Yes, he aimed and fired, full well knowing it was me.”
She pressed her cheek against his beard, her tears mingling with his. “Oh darling,” her voice broke. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
Jeremiah held her as he wept, clinging to her as if his life depended on it. The ache which had cleaved his chest diminished just the smallest degree as he brought her into his confidence. Clara stroked his neck tenderly as he buried his face in her shoulder.
“Don’t tell my father,” he begged. “It would kill him.”
Clara nodded in assent. “I won’t.”
“How will I ever forgive him?” Jeremiah ground out, the sharp knife of betrayal piercing him again with the memory of his brother’s actions.
“I don’t know,” Clara replied honestly. “All we can do is pray…”
Jeremiah closed his eyes and leaned into her. Pray. For the first time the word sparked a flicker of hope within him, like a flame in the darkness. The assurance of God’s presence was as refreshing as a cool drink on a blistering hot day. It may not change the circumstances, but it did bring relief and the strength to endure.
For the first time since the war had broken out, Clara and Jeremiah took the steamer Balloon across the Chesapeake Bay to Baltimore. The city had changed since their last visit, and was now occupied by “blue coats” or “blue bellies,” as the southerners called them. The home of Brigadier General George H. Steuart, who had resigned his commission with the U.S. Army to join the Confederacy, had been confiscated and converted into a military hospital. This same Steuart had commanded Charlie’s regiment at the opening of the war.
The property became known as “Camp Andrew,” after the Governor of Massachusetts, John Andrew, although the hospital was named “Jarvis Hospital” in memory of surgeon N.S. Jarvis. The mansion which had formerly belonged to the Steuart family was converted into an administration building, and the hospital was built on a hill, with enough beds to house 1,500 patients.
The doctor Judson Shepherd had recommended was Dr. Greene, who specialized in the treatment of amputees. He was a straight-faced old man with a white mustache that protruded from his face like the bristles of a broom. What he lacked in affability he made up for in professionalism. While he did not care to dispense unnecessary pleasantries, it was of extreme importance to the doctor that the harness of the prosthesis was fitted precisely for Jeremiah’s stump and that the rubber imitation he made for it was an exact reverse replica of Jeremiah’s right hand.
Clara appreciated Dr. Greene’s attention to detail and the commitment he felt to his patients. Jeremiah was clearly not in the mood for social banter, and the doctor’s silence suited him just fine. It was Clara who was bothered by the absence of friendly chatter, but as she was only there to support her husband, she suppressed her need for conversation and sat idly through each of the examinations and fittings required to complete the prosthesis.
They were staying at an inexpensive bed and breakfast throughout the process, and the company of these two taciturn men reminded Clara once again how much she had come to rely on Phoebe and Mamie for feminine companionship.
Since Jeremiah had confided the rest of the story to her, Clara thought he seemed a little less burdened. Although the regular visits to Camp Andrew provoked a new display of melancholy inspired by the presence of so many soldiers, both those stationed as guards and those who were there to recuperate from injuries. She supposed the military atmosphere triggered memories of his war experience, and in particular, the day he lost his hand.
Clara was glad she had gone to Gettysburg so that she could have a better understanding of the trial he had endured. If she had not seen the tents crowded with wounded and suffering men, she couldn’t have sympathized with the way the battle had changed him.
During the hours spent away from Camp Andrew, they sometimes walked the streets of Baltimore to the Harbor, and other times retired to their room for peace and quiet away from the hustle and bustle of the city. While they were out, Jeremiah was engaged and talkative, but in the privacy of their hotel room, he often sat in a chair by the window, silently staring down at the passersby on the street below.
Clara had brought a novel with her to read in such moments, but she frequently found herself sitting with the open book in her lap as she studied Jeremiah’s profile and wondered what thoughts occupied his mind. Although she had seen the carnage of the battle, she still couldn’t imagine the anguish he felt over the choice of action his brother had taken. Clara secretly hoped that someday Charlie would return to Laurel Hill and convince Jeremiah that the gunshot had been accidental. And she sincerely hoped it had been.
She watched as Jeremiah looked down at his one good hand, palm up, stretching his fingers as if fascinated with the movement of his joints and the capabilities they possessed. Then his focus turned to his left arm where the skin had been pulled over the severed stump and sewn together. It was, Clara had to admit, a strange and disturbing sight.
“I’ve seen the damage a grenade or cannon can do to a man,” he commented thoughtfully, as if aware that her gaze was intent upon him and not the story before her. “Men with their faces blown apart, ears missing, eyes removed from their sockets, scarred into monsters. I know that my loss is so much less, but I still feel like a freak.”
Clara closed the book and set it on the small table next to her chair. Coming to stand beside Jeremiah, she rested her hand on his shoulder, as strong and broad as ever. “You know it’s just a hand to me,” she reminded him. “But I imagine it’s more difficult for you to do without it.”
“This bloody war is causing so many amputees, I suppose men without limbs will become common place, as if it’s the natural order of things. But it isn’t. We’ll be remembered by posterity as a generation of cripples, a generation of Americans who butchered one another on the battlefield,” he predicted grimly.
Unable to argue, Clara remained silent. This war was indeed unlike any other.
“I’m thankful I had you to come home to,” Jeremiah continued, taking her hand in his. “I feel sorry for men who have no wife to love them after an event like this, or men who have to wonder how their wives really feel about them. I’m truly sorry for my behavior at Gettysburg, Clara. I was in a very troubled state of mind and I acted selfishly.” He shook his head to silence her as she opened her mouth in protest.
“You didn’t deserve that. You’ve always been my greatest blessing, and I let my pride get in the way when I needed you most. I’m glad you were there, and I’m glad you’re here with me now. This prosthetic device will help me to be useful on the farm again and to look normal when I’m away from home. I never would have known about it if it wasn’t for you. Thank you for everything you’ve given me, Clara. I love you,” he finished earnestly.
Urging him to his feet, Clara wrapped her arms around his neck and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I know, darling. But If you ever do anything like that to me again, I’m going to permanently move to the trundle bed,” she replied with a coquettish smile. “And then I bet you’ll learn your lesson.”
The wide grin that spread over his face warmed Clara to her toes. Jeremiah pulled her against him firmly with his right arm and replied, “Well, I’ll be on my best behavior from now on then.” Lowering his face to hers, he kissed her breathless.
As they boarded the steamer to return to Centreville, Clara noticed a new confidence in her husband’s stride. Not only was he absolutely assured of her acceptance and love, he wore the new prosthesis with the rubber facsimile attachment, and to all the world he appeared as if he had two hands. Unless one paused to give it a long and lingering look, there was no distinction between the real and the false. Once again, he could blend into the crowd.
“I think the hook will be especially handy when I’m hoeing weeds,” Jeremiah commented, eager to resume the life of a farmer which he had found so rewarding. “It will feel good to be useful again,” he admitted with the first spark of enthusiasm Clara had heard in his voice since his return home.
Clara linked her arm through his elbow, blinking back tears of gratitude. Thank you, Lord, for bringing my husband back to me!