Chapter Thirty-One
Shocks of brown cornstalks interspersed the field like a hundred small pyramids. Their dried leaves rustled in the brisk wind which stirred the autumn garb of the woods bordering the field. Above Jeremiah, the sky was uninterrupted blue as far as the eye could see. The sun shone warm and golden overhead.
Ten year old Silas drove the mule, while the adult men cut the husks from the stalks to be deposited into the wagon. Jeremiah found that having a knife in lieu of a left hand was actually beneficial when it came working the farm. He could secure the stalk with his right hand and hack off the cornhusk with a simple waving motion, never worrying about dropping the implement or losing a finger. Instead of slowing him down, it actually increased his productivity.
Every day when he awoke with his wife beside him, in his own bed at Laurel Hill, Jeremiah was flooded with gratitude. The days of being disrupted from his slumber by the trumpet’s reveille were gone and over with forever. He lived on what the farm produced, filled his days with useful work, and had the strange comfort of knowing that the thing he feared most had already occurred. It was a good life, and he was thankful for it.
He still received periodic letters from Chaplain Davies, filled with wisdom and advice. There were only a few things Jeremiah missed from his days of military service, and the chaplain was among them. Private Phillips also kept in touch, having recovered from his injuries and resumed active duty.
Whenever Jeremiah thought of them, it was painful to remember that young Cullen hadn’t survived his first and only battle. Just recently his body had been disinterred from its hasty resting place and moved to the newly dedicated Soldier’s National Cemetery at Gettysburg.
President Lincoln himself had been present when the cemetery was dedicated, offering a short but memorable speech which further revealed not only his determination to win the war at any cost, but to promote its redefined purpose to end slavery. As a veteran of the bloody battle, and a citizen of a border state caught between the deeply entrenched views of North and South, Jeremiah mulled thoughtfully over the conclusion of Lincoln’s address printed in the paper.
“It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
When Jeremiah enlisted in November of 1861, his intention had not been to improve the world through the forced termination of the practice of slave-holding. He had wanted only to honor the sacrifice of those who had gone before him, like his grandfather, who had fought against the British to make the United States an independent nation, a republic, free from the dictates of a monarchy.
The President claimed that Jeremiah risked his life to preserve what his forefathers had intended for this great country to be: “conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” Kneeling behind the stone breastworks on Culp’s Hill that memorable day, such thoughts had not been Jeremiah’s motivation. But now, in the tranquility of the moment as he worked alongside Old Joe, Henry, and Eli to bring in the corn, Jeremiah could agree that he did fully embrace these ideals.
The war had changed him, just as it had changed many others, and was slowly changing the world—for both better and worse. While the principle of liberty had been expanded to include Negroes, the cost was unthinkable in terms of the soldiers who died in this war, both Union and Rebel. Thousands of men had been sacrificed, and Jeremiah wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was solely for the sake of an ideal.
In the history of humanity, no war had ever been fought merely on principle. There were always economic and political layers to the decision to engage in military action and to extract such a high price from the country’s citizens. This war was no different. There were many angles from which it could be examined, but in the end Jeremiah could personally claim two things: his love of country and his devotion to the freedom of all men. He had made his sacrifice, and he would stand by his commitment to the Northern cause.
Would Charlie say the same? Could his brother still stand by his commitment to the Southern cause, after all that had transpired? Jeremiah might never know the answer. And while part of him wished to sit down over a meal and discuss these things with Charlie, the greater part of him still boiled with hurt and rage.
In his most recent missive, Chaplain Davies had given Jeremiah a piece of spiritual advice which he was attempting to put into practice. “Turn your worries into prayers,” Davies wrote. “The blessings of a right relationship with God through Jesus Christ aren’t just for heaven, but also for the here and now. If you’ve repented of yours sins and confessed that Jesus is Lord, you never have to face your troubles alone again. You can surrender all your worries to Providence with the knowledge and assurance that the God who orders the universe loves you as His child.”
Whenever Jeremiah found his mind drifting to the future, to the day when he might see his brother again, or to the implications of the war raging on for years to come, he tried to take the chaplain’s advice. And he had to admit, it was much easier to feel at peace when trusting God than when trying to carry the weight of the world alone.
“Is anyone among you suffering? He should pray,” Davies had quoted James 5:13 in his typical fashion. Jeremiah smiled. The old man had, in his own unique and eccentric way, walked Jeremiah through some of the darkest times of his life and led him to God. For that, Jeremiah would always be grateful to him.
There were more dark times to come, that was certain. But Jeremiah hoped none would rival what he had endured in Gettysburg. When he considered all the nation had survived in the last two and a half years of war, and when he listened to the President’s appeal that it not be vain—that the battle continue until it was won—he grieved to think of all the losses yet to come.
Over the summer, the recruiting of colored troops had begun in Queenstown and Kent Island. Jeremiah shouldn’t have been surprised when Henry and Eli confessed their intention to enlist.
“We gonna wait till after harvest-time, suh,” Henry assured Francis, “but then, if you say so, we like to do our part so one day my Little Joe be a free man, not a slave.” His white teeth flashed against his ebony skin as he smiled, the hope of his son’s freedom illuminating him with joy.
How could anyone deny his request with that light shining in his eyes?
“The white men losin’ they heart to fight,” Eli had added. “But we black men, we just feeling the fire grow in our chests,” he thumped his chest with a clenched fist for emphasis, his dark eyes sparking with passion.
Francis consented. When the steamer Cecil returned to take Negro recruits to Baltimore, Eli and Henry would go with them.
Not all slaves respected their masters enough to seek permission. When the steamer had first arrived, many had taken the opportunity to run away. Among them were twenty slaves belonging to William Paca, although they were recaptured and returned to bondage.
Jeremiah hated to see Henry and Eli go, not only for the loss of their labor at Laurel Hill, but because he knew what they would be facing. In this moment, they were as clueless to the reality of war as he had been that November day in 1861 when he had mounted Archie and bade them all farewell.
It was easy to hold fast to ideals and principles when you weren’t dodging bullets and watching good men bleed to death on the ground beside you. When you were staring down the enemy, heart pounding and palms sweating, it was a vastly different thing than talking of war from the back porch of your home.
Following on foot behind the mule-drawn wagon to the corn crib to unload their harvest before washing up for the noon meal, Jeremiah inhaled the cool, crisp air. The breeze carried the familiar smells of fall on the farm, the sweetness of the corn mingling with the tang of autumn leaves. It had been a day much like this one when he had left Laurel Hill to enlist in Cambridge. Not only had he been ignorant to the harsh cruelty of war, Jeremiah had been selfishly oblivious to the impact his decision would have on his wife.
Clara had been forced to step into a different role as mistress of Laurel Hill, sharing the management of the farm with her father-in-law. While she had never complained, her letters had often hinted at deep loneliness and dark fear. When Jeremiah chose to serve his nation, he had imposed his sacrifice upon her.
But from the day they met until the present time, with every trial and challenge they had faced in between, Clara had remained steadfast by his side as his greatest supporter and truest confidante. And Jeremiah swore that he would never take her for granted again.
Clara hummed along with Mamie as she sang, “In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore…” as she bent over the butter churn, moving the dash up and down in a strong and rhythmic motion. The smells of bread baking in the oven filled the kitchen, and at the table, Clara and Phoebe plaited the dried tops of onions into a long braid to preserve them through the winter.
On the floor, Lena sat with Little Joe, who was now old enough to get into mischief if not closely watched. He had learned that he could go wherever he wanted on his hands and knees, and crawled around the house at lightning quick speed. Lena tried to occupy him with clapping games and songs, but the only time the boy was ever still was when he was sleeping.
Phoebe had confided to Clara that Henry and Eli were planning to join the Union Army as soon as the harvest was in. Jeremiah confirmed that Francis had given them his blessing, and that the men were eager to do their part to fight for freedom.
Clara hated the thought of anyone else she cared about going into battle. But since the war had lingered on, and the focus had shifted from preserving the Union to ending slavery, Jeremiah told her that more and more Negroes were joining the fight. With the increased number of slaves joining the “contraband camps” in the south, allowing the Negroes to join the army relieved the government of caring for such a large number of dependents, as well as compensating for the decreased number in volunteers as the white men grew jaded and weary with the fight.
When Jeremiah enlisted, Clara had hoped that the war would end quickly. Phoebe had no such delusions. The black woman also had more insight into the consequences of war than Clara had in the fall of 1861. She had watched Jane grieve, stood by as Clara pined and worried, and seen the state Jeremiah returned home in. Phoebe knew that Charlie was held as a prisoner of war, living in dubious conditions.
But for Phoebe, the reward was much greater. Clara had not been as invested in the goal of preserving the Union. Risking her husband’s life to hold the seceding states captive had not felt worth the cost. When Henry marched off into battle, Phoebe knew that he was fighting for their freedom, and for the freedom of their son and all generations to follow.
If slavery was abolished once and for all, their grandchildren would grow up in a generation for whom the slavery of Negroes would be only stories and the reminiscences of the elderly. They would have opportunities and dreams never before possible because of the color of their skin. It was a battle worth fighting.
Eli was determined to gain Hattie’s permission to marry Mercy before he left, and Phoebe was relatively certain she would grant it. “You can’t stop young love,” Phoebe chuckled. “Any of us been in love afore know that!”
Clara smiled, nodding in agreement. As foolish as she believed it was to marry a man before he ran off to fight, she would have married Jeremiah under those conditions if he’d asked her to. Love was a curious and powerful emotion, and in a world gone mad with hatred and violence, it was always a blessing to be reminded of it.
In the last few weeks, Jeremiah had grown more and more like his old self. He found satisfaction and joy in working the farm, and was thrilled and fascinated with the ability to convert his left hand into various tools. The color had come back into his cheeks from working in the sun, and the availability of meat and fresh vegetables on the farm had aided in filling him out.
It was too strange a thing to ever admit aloud, but Clara was thankful for his injury. Not only had it brought him home to her, it had given him a reason to remain at home. Without the constant stress of facing each day alone, of fearing for her husband’s safety, Clara too looked healthier than she had in some time.
But until the war ended, there would always be dark clouds threatening overhead. As she sat humming along with Mamie in the kitchen, a carriage pulled up outside. She followed Phoebe to the door to find her mother, gray and ashen, standing alongside her father and sister. Jane’s eyes were swollen and red, and the somber expression on George’s face portended another heartbreaking loss.
“Eddy?” she whispered, gripping her mother’s hand as she stepped over the threshold.
Unable to speak, Naomi nodded brokenly.
Jane encircled her mother’s waist, escorting her into the parlor where Naomi collapsed onto the sofa, tears streaming down her face.
Clara turned to her father questioningly. “What happened?”
George compressed his lips into a thin line to hold back his emotions. Wordlessly, he procured a letter from his vest pocket and handed it to Clara.
With trembling hands, she unfolded the page and skimmed over the neat penmanship. Although Eddy’s name had not appeared in the newspaper as a casualty, he had been fatally wounded at the Second Battle of Rappahannock Station in Virginia. It had been a decisive win for the Union, but not without some loss. The letter was written by a nurse who had attended Eddy at the field hospital before his death.
If he hadn’t been able to provide his name, as well as his parents’ address, they would have never known what had become of him. The nurse wrote that Eddy had been fading fast as she bent over him, but that he was determined to communicate the necessary information to ensure they were contacted and to convey one final message of love and farewell.
Clara’s gaze lifted from the page to stare blankly at the orange flames licking at the crackling logs in the fireplace. Eddy, the obnoxious little boy, the doting younger brother, the well-dressed merchant’s son, was gone forever. He had been struck by a grenade, with no hope of survival.
“Oh Mama,” she sighed, feeling the loss deep down in her heart. “Our poor Eddy…”
Jane removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and sobbed softly into it. Clara imagined that this letter reminded her of another, written by the man whom she had intended to marry, have children with, and grow old beside. Not only had she lost her brother today, Jane had lost her fiancé and her future all over again.
Clara sank down into the armchair, allowing her mother and sister to comfort one another. They would all soon be dressed in the black of mourning, joining the many mothers, sisters, fiancées and wives the war had left behind.
Hearing the back door open, and the thump of her husband’s boots on the wood floor, Clara rose to greet him with open arms. As she fell into his chest, inhaling the smell of sweat and corn and autumn air, Clara fisted Jeremiah’s cotton shirt.
“Eddy’s gone,” she whispered as his arms encircled her. But even as anguish divided her soul, she was comforted that Jeremiah was alive and with her. Thank you, God, for sparing my husband!
Through the haze of her grief, Clara heard Jeremiah offer his condolences to her parents, his voice a deep rumble in her ear.
“Eddy never wanted to fight,” her father ground out resentfully. “And now he’s dead.”
It was little wonder that patriotism was waning, that love of country had ceased to be sufficient motivation for men to sacrifice their lives. Even had George Collins shared the Yankee position, he would never have chosen to send his only son to fight for it. He clenched his fists in bitter rage, his eyes glazed with unshed tears.
Naomi gently pushed Jane away from her, gathering her full skirt in her hands as she gained her feet. Coming to stand before her husband, Naomi placed her hand on his chest and looked up into George’s angry eyes.
Her voice was thick with tears as she reminded him, “No matter where we are, every one of us are in the hands of Providence. It’s the only comfort to be found.”