Chapter Twenty-Two

SEPTEMBER 1864

Emma’s labor began mildly before we left the library —brief spasms at first, or so it seemed to me. Obadiah carried her upstairs even as I called for Alma. For the first few hours the contractions came far apart, and in between Emma laughed, joyful that at last her hopes would be fulfilled.

“We’ll have a baby before sundown, I know it. If I am not able, you must write Elliott for me —right away.”

“That’s something you’ll want to do for yourself, darling Emma.” I smoothed the damp hair from her brow.“No.” She shook her head, groaning with another contraction. “He must know right away. Learning he’s a father will give him such joy, such hope, such determination to come home alive and well to me —to us! Aagh!”

The contractions came closer together, then slowed, then seemed to stop for a long while. I didn’t know what to think, but Alma, used to delivering babies, said that sometimes happened, especially after an upset.

“Best keep her feet up. Best keep to her bed. It won’t be long now.”

Emma was adamant that all would be well, that the baby be named Elliott Jr., and that I sew him a christening gown soon as he was born. But we were Baptists and didn’t christen babies.

“It doesn’t matter. I want a special gown for him.”

I agreed to anything and everything she wanted, certain that we’d be able to talk things through after the birth, after her burgeoning emotions stabilized.

Twice I teased that she’d best share with us the girl’s name she’d chosen, just in case, but Emma had declared that there was no need. She was birthing the heir of Belvidere Hall and the baby must be a boy. “Father Belvidere has always insisted he will leave Belvidere Hall to a male heir to carry on the family name, so a grandson I shall give him. God will make my baby a boy to make him the heir.”

She spoke in near delirium about the changes her baby would make once the slaves were set free, once Elliott returned, and by the way, where was Elliott now?

I couldn’t keep up with her mental gyrations.

“Best just keep her calm, Miz Minnie. No need to make sense of all she says.”

I thanked God again and again for Alma. Martha peeked in on us from time to time, bringing plates of food and pots of tea, refreshed basins of water and clean linens.

The hours turned to night and day and night again. As Emma labored, she weakened. Alma and I took turns sitting with her, cooling her brow with damp compresses, rubbing her back and shoulders, massaging her feet, helping her walk across the floor when she could no longer lie in bed.

By the second sunset Alma knew that Emma and the baby were in trouble. “Best send for the doctor. This more than I know how to do.”

We sent Obadiah for Dr. Hendrix. Hours passed and he did not come. Whether he was away tending other patients or he delayed because of our known Union sympathies, I didn’t know. Midnight came and there was no progress with the birth. I sent Obadiah to search for the doctor again.

Emma’s strength waned. Twice I surrendered her and the baby to God, praying only that her horrendous pain would stop, that at least she would live.

Finally, in the predawn hours of the third day, a squalling baby girl slid into the world in a sea of blood. Dr. Hendrix still had not come. Nothing Alma or I did could stanch the flow. As we laid her precious daughter in her arms, Emma closed her eyes and whispered, “Tell Elliott we have a son. They’ll all be safe now. They’ll all be free.” She’d barely said the words when she slipped away.

“Oh, dear Lord Almighty.” Alma, covered in Emma’s blood, sank, weeping, to the floor by the side of the bed.

“No. No.” I couldn’t move, couldn’t grasp that she was gone, that life had gone from her body, that God had not granted my plea —for Emma, for this child, for Elliott, for us all. Numb and cold. That’s what I felt. Emma’s fevered hand cooled in mine.

I don’t know what time passed —it could only have been minutes, surely —before I saw the screaming, linen-wrapped infant as a person. A tiny life in desperate need. Gingerly, awkwardly, I lifted Emma’s child from her bosom. So small. So incredibly small.

Alma was beside me, taking the baby, washing her with a cloth from a basin of clean water we’d kept aside for that purpose. I heard Alma weeping, praying, weeping more. But no tears came for me, only disbelief.

If ever a child came into this world on a dark day, it was this one, this little girl with no name.