Spring 1863
Three letters from Wes, all looking “battle scarred,” arrived for JoBeth at the same time. One touched her deeply but filled her with a feeling of apprehension. There was something about it that sounded so final, as though it might be the last time she would ever hear from Wes.
Lying here on my cot in the tent on this dark night, my dreams are filled with visions of your dear face. Even though now it seems endless, I know our separation must someday end. And we will find our love and happiness again. I take your letters out and press them to my lips—it seems your perfume still clings to the pages, and I am most aware of the sweetness of your memory, the scent of your skin, your hair. How I long to hold you once more. Pray God it will not be too long until that happy day comes.
Ever yours,
Wes
The letters had no dates, so JoBeth could not be sure when Wes had written them or where he might possibly have been at the time.
Long march today, feet aching, legs weary, shoulder burdened with heavy pack. All made light, easy, because I let my mind wander to thoughts of you—the bright days of summers we knew…
I had a terrible dream. I woke feeling suddenly desolate. I dreamed I could not remember your lovely face. How could this be? At night when I lie awake waiting for sleep to come, your beautiful eyes appear, smiling, and gradually your image comes to comfort me. I think sometimes I can even hear your voice.
I do think of you as my bride. Then I consider the price I’ve asked you to pay. My love for a life of sorrow? Alienation from your family, from those you hold near and dear? This cruel war that has parted us, that has sent me away from you. For what? For home and country? I have left the only home I’ve known, my land, my people. I am an orphan, in truth. Except for your love, my dearest—that is all that holds me staunch. And I believe our cause to be a just one.
Spring brought the war even closer. With the battle at Chancellorsville in May, the Confederates won a remarkable but costly victory against the Union Army. The losses were heavy, something that the Southern forces, with less manpower, could not easily bear. Worse still was the tragic death of General Lee’s right-hand man, accidentally shot by his own pickets.
At the news of Stonewall Jackson’s death, flags were flown at half-mast in Hillsboro. Some even wore black armbands, like Wayne Spencer, whose sons had fought under the brilliant general. Still, the success of Lee’s army lifted spirits and gave a renewed hope that the Confederacy would eventually be victorious.
A letter from Wes came, and JoBeth sensed a difference in tone from the previous ones. There was a sense of fatalism about it that frightened her.
June 1863
My Dearest,
In the silence around this encampment, the tension is almost alive. We expect attack or some action anytime…. We know the Confeds are somewhere camped in the hills just beyond the ridge. We speak of the enemy, but all I can think is that these are my former playmates, my classmates, my fellow college students, my brothers…. Are we not all God’s children? This horrible conflict must soon be resolved. Oh, JoBeth, I can close my eyes and see your dear face, see your sweet smile, the dark, silky curls falling on your shoulders, hear your tender voice. I remember the words we spoke, and they echo in my despairing heart. Will they ever be said again? When I finally drift off to sleep, when I wake, your name is on my lips.
No more letters came for three more weeks. Anxiety about Wes was JoBeth’s constant companion. Yet she could share it with no one.
It was in July, however, that the tide of the war was about to turn dramatically. Ironically, it would happen on the national anniversary celebration of American independence.
Hillsboro on the first day of July was blistering, not a breath of air stirring. The ladies were out on the Cadys’ front porch, waiting for Uncle Madison to come home for noon dinner. JoBeth was sitting on the steps, and her mother and aunt were in rocking chairs, fluttering palmetto fans and discussing a new quilt pattern. All of a sudden Aunt Josie sat up straight, exclaiming in alarm, “Will you look at that! Walking so fast in this heat, he’s liable to get a stroke. Madison ought to know better.”
JoBeth turned to see her uncle striding briskly down the sidewalk toward the house.
Aunt Josie got to her feet and went to the porch railing, ready to rebuke her husband the minute he came through the gate. But something in his expression stopped her. He came puffing up the steps, mopping his red face with his handkerchief as he said breathlessly, “News has just come over the telegraph wires. A great battle is underway near a small Pennsylvania town called Gettysburg. And we’re winning! Surely now Lee will bring about a glorious victory—whip those Yankees once and for all.”
A worried Aunt Josie urged him to sit down and rest a bit while she brought him a glass of iced tea. He did, under protest, and eventually he caught his breath, and they all went into the house for a delayed meal. However, Uncle Madison could hardly eat a bite and left without taking his usual short nap. He wanted to return to his office downtown to be close to the telegraph office, where further bulletins would be posted as soon as received.
Soon after he departed, Aunt Josie put on her bonnet, saying she thought she’d go over to Dorinda’s. Munroe’s wife was expecting a new baby, she said, and it might be well for someone to be with her, in case … She left the sentence dangling, but Johanna and JoBeth knew the fearful thought she had left unspoken. Both Harvel and Munroe were with Lee’s army and probably in the midst of the battle now raging. And was Wes too? JoBeth wondered. She had to keep her dread question to herself.
That night at the supper table, Uncle Madison was still in an excited, optimistic frame of mind.
“Lee’s invincible! Everyone says so. Harvel told me at Christmas that even the Union generals agree he is a military genius. This could be the turning point!” He slapped his hands together in obvious anticipation of victory.
Suddenly the tension that had been building inside her over the past weeks and months came to the surface, and JoBeth turned to him tearfully. “Men and boys are dying, uncle! Being killed! On both sides in this awful war, don’t you know? There’s nothing to feel good about!”
She shook off her mother’s restraining hand and continued to face her uncle, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Uncle Madison visibly paled. He stared at her.
“You forget yourself, young lady,” he said in a trembling voice. “I have two sons most probably in the thick of it. But they are fighting for a cause that affects us all—you, your safety, our life here even this far from it—I never forget that.”
“JoBeth, dear, please.” Her mother’s gentle reproach went unheeded.
“And so is Wes fighting for what he believes. No one here, in this family, gives him credit for that. Except me. I love him! And he may be dying or being killed this minute, and nobody cares—” Her voice cracked hoarsely, and JoBeth ran sobbing from the room.
When JoBeth woke up, she knew it was late. The house was silent. There was not a sound of movement downstairs or in the hallway outside her bedroom door. Had they all gone to church without calling her? She knew that her mother thought she was ill last night and had made excuses for her to the others. Why else the outburst, the tears?
She remembered running upstairs the night before, throwing herself down on her bed, weeping uncontrollably. She vaguely recalled falling into an exhausted sleep and her mother coming in later, placing a cloth, dampened with cologne, on her burning forehead, drawing her quilt gently over her shoulders, tiptoeing out again.
How long had she slept? Was the battle at Gettysburg over?
Who had won? Was Wes still alive? Or was he dead—had he made the ultimate sacrifice for his beliefs? A vivid picture of him lying, bloody, broken, in some forsaken place flashed before her. The image pierced her like a bayonet. Oh, God, I hope it has all been worth it! New tears rolled down her cheeks and into her mouth, and she tasted the hot saltiness on her lips.
She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, wishing she could go to sleep again and not wake up until the war was over.
For three hot, humid, miserable days, people clustered around the telegraph office of the Hillsboro train station, awaiting the latest news of the battle being so fiercely waged.
Gettysburg—few had even heard the name, but afterward few would ever forget it.