Rulon had a great surprise upon the field of battle at Manassas late on the third day. He had been detailed as a courier for General Stuart and was carrying orders to General Robertson when he encountered his father.
“Pa!” he shouted, reining up. “Pa!” he tried again to get his attention.
His father turned his head, and seeing Rulon, spurred his horse in his direction.
“Son. Be safe. This fight is vicious.”
“I will. Have you seen Ben or Peter?”
“Peter is in the thick fighting near the plantation house. I haven’t caught sight of Ben. God speed, son,” he said, and was off, leading his company in a different direction.
“Lordy, lordy,” Rulon whispered in a demi prayer, relieved to see Pa was whole, but now concerned about Peter. The rascal would manage to go into the hottest part of the fray. Nothing would prevent him seeking glory.
Then Rulon could put no thought to his brother’s pride, as he was on the move again, looking for the brigade colors that marked the spot from which the General directed his regiments. He had orders to deliver.
~~~
Julia — September 2, 1862
After a year of war, Julia had grown used to the exercise of scanning the casualty lists published by the newspaper after the big battles. She would never become accustomed to the clutching sense of dread that accompanied the perusal.
Carl came home from town in late afternoon and handed the list to her, folded with such sharp edges that he must have run pinching fingers over the fold several times to leave a tight crease.
“Did you read it yet?” she asked.
He shook his head, eyes cautious. Albert stood half behind him, clutching white-knuckled hands together.
She held the sheet for a moment, then turned away from her sons, the dread closing her throat already.
She took a seat at the table. Marie came into the room, followed by Julianna. Julia said, “Sit down, daughters.” Her quavering voice startled her.
Marie sat on one side and Julianna on the other. Julia heard Carl and Albert go outside, but they hadn’t closed the door, and she could feel their eyes boring into her shoulder blades. She didn’t know where James and Clayton were.
Marie twisted a handkerchief. Julianna folded her arms on the table top and put her head down on them. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Julia unfolded the paper and looked at it. The list was neither alphabetized nor ordered by unit, which meant she had to read each name. She did not want to see any name ending in Owen. She ran her tongue across her bottom lip. She struggled to take a breath.
She exhaled and began, drawing her forefinger slowly down the first column as she read the names. She noticed that her finger trembled, and she paused to get herself in hand.
Marie made a small sound.
Julia looked at her, then back to the paper. Her heart pounded in her ears. She slowly began to read again, her lips forming each name.
Near the bottom of the third column, her finger stopped. She shrank back, a cry arising from the depths of her soul.
“Mama?” moaned Julianna.
Peter. The entry said Peter Owen. It gave his regiment and company.
Julia whispered his name once, disbelieving the printer’s ink under her finger. Her hands convulsed, opening and closing above the sheet before her. Her ears buzzed. I dasn’t faint. I dasn’t!
Shadows moved in front of her as the girls peered at the spot her finger had marked. Julianna whimpered and sat back. Julia forced herself to focus her eyes on her daughter. The girl’s face had gone white as alabaster. She appeared about to topple to one side.
Julia found the strength to thrust out her arm and grasp her daughter’s wrist. She heard a chair’s legs scrape against the floor. Marie was on her feet, pacing, tears streaming down her cheeks as she sobbed.
“Ma?” Carl put his hands on her shoulders.
All she could do was point. She had no voice to speak his name again. Gone. The boy was gone.
Carl must have located the awful bit of news. She heard his sharp inhalation, and Albert’s “Who is it, Carl?” as he came around her side. Carl’s hands had slipped off her shoulders. The boys whispered to each other, then Albert choked off a sob.
Julianna had gone limp, leaning backwards, almost off the bench. Julia knew she couldn’t hold her upright from her chair. She somehow got her feet underneath her, levered herself upright, and pulled the girl back to lean on the table, all the while chills ran races along her spine. Peter was dead. She had no time to mourn while her other children were in such sore straits.
~~~
Julia — September 12, 1862
For days, Julia navigated the paths of her everyday life with her heart torn to shreds. Peter was gone. Peter, whose reckless spirit had led him to seek the adventures of war, was no more. She couldn’t fathom it. Yes, she had been forced to lay a babe in a grave before this, but to have a half-grown child wrested from her? It was unthinkable.
She wondered if Rod knew of the loss. The two of them had been in the same regiment, so it was possible that he had found out. She longed to have his arm around her shoulders, to gain solace from his sturdy body held next to hers, but that was impossible just now. She would have to travel this path of sorrow alone.
No. She wasn’t alone. She had children beside her, children who were grieving the taking of their playmate, older brother, and friend. Tease. Rapscallion. Jokester. He was all of those. But he was also a hard worker.
Had been. Not now. Julia felt her soul was stripped to pieces.
Peter would never again come up behind her and tie the tails of her apron strings where she couldn’t reach them. He would never again curry the buggy horse and put it into harness for her. He would never again object to her swift kiss on his cheek at night.
Peter was gone, dumped into a hole on a battlefield and covered over with a few spades of Virginia earth.
She sank into a chair, ready to weep, knowing she should comfort Julianna, who went about the house like a ghost. Marie sobbed in her room at night. Carl wore the face of a martyr, white as alabaster. Clay and Albert huddled on the fireplace hearth in the evenings, shoulders drooping, each one looking at the other then away, too proud to cry.
She had no strength. Peter. The dark-haired child who’d come along after two little tow-headed boys. How was she to do without him?
She rested for a few moments, imagining him dashing into the thick of the battle, then shied away from following that thought. She must not mope here. It would lead her into dark avenues. She gathered her resources into a tiny ball of resolve, and rose to get a basket and go outdoors to take the clothes off the lines. She hoped the open air would sooth her battered soul.
~~~
Rulon — September 20, 1862
Rulon’s regiment had pressed forward into Maryland as General Lee sought to gain an advantage by invading the North. One evening, shortly after the bloody days at Sharpsburg, he got a letter. He leaned on his horse to rip it open, having recognized Mary’s hand.
September 4, 1862
Dear Husband,
I scarce can hold a pen to write these words for the great sorrow enwrapping my soul. Your sister Marie came to see our dear child and me. Soon after coming through the door, she commenced to weep as though she would perish from grief, bringing the most fearful news. Your brother Peter is no more. His name was writ on the casualty list from the second fight about Manassas railway junction. No one knows where his erthly remains are laid to rest. I am terriby distracted by the evil news of your brother’s demise.
Your mama is beside herself with mourning, Marie tells me. She herself is almost in the same state. I endeavered to tell her to be brave so she wood be fit to help your mama bear her burden. After a time, she cried her final tears and agreed to do what she could. We must now find or make black material for mourning clothes. However, I do not kno of a weaver left in the county.
Dear husband, I pray you are well and can take the terribl loss of your broth’r in stride. We hear many reports of your bravery and skill in fighting the dred foe in Maryland. I tell Baby Roddy about his Papa every night before I lay him in bed. Do not put yourself in Harm’s Way. My love for you is unending.
Yor faithful wife,
Mary Hilbrands Owen
Halfway through his reading of the letter, he felt himself sliding down the withers of the horse, and then he was sitting on the ground, distraught and trying to hold himself together. Peter dead? It did not seem possible.
“No,” he groaned. “No, not my brother. Dear God, why Peter? Why not me instead?”
Ren found him there, and led the horse away so it wouldn’t do him damage. He returned and squatted beside Rulon.
“Ill news?”
“Oh God in heaven,” Rulon cried out as though he petitioned the Lord for a different outcome. “It’s my brother. Gone. Dead.”
He felt Ren’s hand touching him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rule. That’s a terrible loss.” The voice was so quiet Rulon could barely hear it.
He crumpled Mary’s letter in his two fists, crying unashamed tears.
Ren stayed still and silent for a time, then arose. “You’d best take a mouthful or two of rations, man. You may not think it will help, but it will keep you from wasting in this hard time.”
Rulon shook his head. How could he think of eating when his rascally brother would never take sustenance again? “My poor ma. She don’t deserve this.”
Ren gave a little snort. “No mother does, but you know the truth. Our men are dying most every day. Some poor mothers who don’t get any notice are left to wonder why their dear boy don’t write home anymore.”
“That don’t help the pain, Ren.”
“It’s fresh, man. Don’t dwell on it for more than a little space. You’ve got your duty.”
Rulon remembered the picket he was supposed to relieve. “Give me a minute. I’ll pull myself together.”
“You will do. Ridin’ by your side these months past, I’ve learned you’ve got the mettle.”
“I—” Rulon scrubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands, almost tearing the letter in the process. “God have mercy on his soul,” he muttered, then got to his feet. He carefully folded the letter to finish later, and tucked it into his jacket. “Oh Mary,” he groaned. “Don’t let the boy come to any harm.”
~~~
Ella Ruth — September 21, 1862
Weeks after Ella Ruth heard of Mrs. Owen’s loss of her son, her parents invited Doctor Allen and his wife to Sunday dinner. The dinner conversation between the two brothers centered on the conflict just past at Sharpsburg, and the influx of wounded men into the new soldier’s hospital just outside Mount Jackson. While the ham was served, Dr. Allen mentioned that he was looking for ladies from the town to volunteer several hours a week to come nurse the new patients. “My own dear wife helps as she has time, but the children do need her at home.”
Mrs. Doctor Allen nodded and murmured a bit about how the little ones kept her quite occupied.
“Brother Joseph,” Ella Ruth’s mother said in a tone firm enough to catch the doctor’s attention. “What kind of topic is this for the dinner table?”
“A war time topic, my dear,” the doctor said. “These soldiers need care. Our country owes great thanks to these young men. What better way than to tend to their needs?”
Did Peter Owen die because no one was there to tend to his needs? Ella Ruth gave a little shudder, imagining Ben lying on a field strewn with the injured and dying. Mama should let Uncle have his say.
“Perhaps you should speak to Theodore on the topic after we dine. He can offer you several helpful ideas, I am quite sure. That would be more proper, don’t you agree?” Mrs. Allen turned to her husband for support.
“Uncle,” Ella Ruth surprised herself by speaking up. “What are your requirements for nurses?”
“Miss Ella Ruth, they need only have a pair of willing and able hands, a compassionate heart, and spare time.” He wiped a dripping of sauce off his chin with his napkin. “We will give any needed training to the nurses as they work.”
Ella Ruth let the conversation go on as she thought about his answer. She certainly had spare time, and her hands were capable, if not willing. Did she have a compassionate heart? Perhaps not. She wanted to be compassionate, but either it was a trait she lacked, or she had not been taught about compassion.
Was that the same thing as kindness? She thought of herself as kind. She always treated her maid Lula kindly. She never struck her, or spoke harshly to her. Was not that being kind? Was it compassionate? Perhaps so.
Or was compassion sympathy? She inhaled, contemplating the muddle in her brain. She was only confusing herself, putting too much thought into the affair. Why did it matter in the end? The doctor needed more hands to aid the soldiers in the hospital. She felt a chill run up her spine. Should Ben be wounded during his next encounter with the enemy and enter a hospital, would it not be her fondest desire that he have competent nursing care from some kindly woman? Yes, indeed it would.
“Dr. Allen,” she blurted out, interrupting her father in mid-sentence. “I should like to serve in the hospital.”
“Daughter, that is impossible,” her mother said, drawing herself into a stiff posture.
“No, it is not. I have very little work to do here at home, no purpose in my life. This is what I will do as my thanks to our fine soldiers.”
Her mother made a sound of protest, but her father jumped into the conversation with, “You see how it is, Louisa. She has set her mind to do this thing, and she will not be dissuaded.” He turned to his brother. “It seems you have a volunteer, Joseph. Be sure she is treated well.”
And that, Ella Ruth thought, is that. I shall be an excellent nurse.
~~~
Julia — October 4, 1862
On a Saturday morning, Julia entered the kitchen to begin breakfast, and found a folded sheet of paper propped against her large mixing bowl. Immediate dread flowed down her spine as though an icy finger had stroked her bare skin. She sank into her chair, holding the paper where her blurred eyes could see the words on the outside.
To Ma
“No,” she moaned, knowing what must be inside. “No.” This time, the word escaped her throat as a sob.
Almost as though her hands were controlled by another person, they unfolded the paper.
Ma,
I kno you will take this hard, but I am hon’r-bound to take Peter’s place. We lost so many good men at Manassas, and now that the Yankeys have been fot at great cost at Sharpsburg, Gen’l Bobby Lee needs me.
Do not dispare. I will be as a ghost in the mist attacking the foe. I sware to you I will return.
Your son, Carl
~~~
Rulon — December 31, 1862
31st day of Decemb’r 1862
Culpepper C.H.
Dear Wife,
You will have heard about the Yankees bringing war to us in Fredricsburg. They did not prevale, due to much delay in bringing the fight across the river. Our regimn’t was not much employed in the battle at Fredricsburg but We afterward embarked upon a bold raid across the Rappahannoc and into the realm of the foe. Nearly two Thousand of troops in three Brigades under Gen’l Stuart’s own leadership made the raiding party. We rode as far north as Dumfries before we went in other directions to impede the enemy’s designs and give him pause. Near a place called Greenwood Church, our Regmt had a encounter with some boys from Penn, who turned tail and ran when we charged into them. The command routed, at which we pursewed them for about two miles, taking many prisoners.
Gen’r Stuart captured a telegraph house and made fools of the Yankees in Washington, getting information that helped him decide where to attac next. Our Brigadeer Gen’l, Fitz Lee, took a party and pulled down the rail road brige over a creek.
We coold not attac Fairfax C.H., as the enemy seemed to know of our activities, but we have returned to safety in this place.
I hope our little son and yor dear person had a plesent Christmas celebration. I wish I coold be there to hold you in my arms and see the New Year come in. This war must end soon. The Yankees surely by now see our determination to be a country separate from them. They cannot carry on this conflict much longer.
If you see my mother soon, give her a kiss for me. Receev a special kiss from my lips as if it were placed upon your brow and all other places. I miss my sweet Sugar.
Yor Husband,
Rulon Owen
1st Virginia Regiment, Cavalry