Mary — April 22, 1865
A week later, in an attempt to ease Rulon’s grief, Mary decided to wear a dress that had sweet memories for them, the dress with the lavender skirt that she wore the day she married him. The dark shade would keep their mourning, although the light bodice would not. She hoped he would forgive her the lapse when he saw her in it, if it brought to mind happier days.
A happy surprise will do him good, she thought, searching through the wardrobe when he was asleep. She did not find the outfit there.
Hoping it was in the attic, she got up into the small space, but did not find it. However, Roddy took delight in holding up his toy sword and prancing around the attic as though he rode a horse.
Curbing her smile at the antics of her son, she wondered if she had left the dress behind at Papa’s house. Mary sighed, remembering the fuzzy state of her mind when Rulon had returned in such dire straits. Yes, it probably still occupied a place in Ida’s wardrobe.
“Come down now, Roddy. We must go wake Papa.” She brushed dust off the boy. “He will have charge of you while I run an errand.”
“Papa will play with me? Yippee!” he crowed, and dashed down the stair ahead of her.
“Quiet, dear son. We must wake Papa slowly, lest he become startled.”
“Papa, Papa, Papa,” Roddy whispered with enthusiasm.
Mary shushed the boy and took him into the larger bedroom of the two in the house.
“Rulon,” she said softly as she passed through the doorway. She put a finger to her lips for Roddy’s benefit, and approached the bed. “Husband? Will you wake?” When Rulon opened his eyes she continued. “Could you tend to Roddy for an hour? I must go do an errand.”
Rulon raised himself on an elbow. He smiled at the child. “He gives me joy, Mary. I don’t mind playing nursemaid for a spell.”
She smiled, grateful that in the last two days Rulon had found his strength returning. A week ago, what a horror to learn of another great loss! It had laid Rulon low again, a setback to all the progress he had made in healing from his injuries. But yesterday he was much improved, and she took heart that his grief had taken on a yearning, almost accepting aspect, which helped soothe her own pain. Brother Ben had treated her kindly. She would miss him terribly. How Miss Allen must feel!
Once Roddy was safely in Rulon’s charge, Mary hurried to the home of her childhood, watching out for Yankee soldiers, and went straight into her old room to search the wardrobe.
She found Ida in the room, sitting before the mirror, hunched over something she held close. She appeared to be in an unusual state, moaning softly to herself.
“Ida! What are you up to?”
Ida shrieked, jumped up, and backed away, trying to hide the object in her hand behind her back, but Mary was too quick for her, and snatched away a piece of paper.
Ida’s red face turned petulant. “I’m only exploring the delights that entranced you,” she blustered. “I deserve a few delights.”
Mary looked at the paper and froze. A letter. Her letter. The lost letter from Rulon. Horrors! Ida had stolen it.
“‘My body and vigor are yours alone’,” Ida sneered. “They can’t be anything special, now that he’s all full of holes.”
“You read my letter.” Mary’s ears rang, and she grabbed the back of Ida’s chair to support herself.
“Perhaps he is missing his Things,” Ida taunted, pointing downward. “Is that why he’s so cross?”
“You read my letter and kept it from me.” Mary’s toes gripped the insides of her shoes.
“You don’t know, do you? Six months, and you haven’t even bothered to lay with him.” Ida’s mouth twisted in a smirk.
“What sort of tramp are you?” Mary asked in a low voice.
“I am not a tramp.”
Mary spoke the worst insult she could think of. “Are you servicing Yankees?”
Ida cried out at the accusation and came at Mary with her nails bared.
Mary socked her in the eye. “You shame yourself,” she hissed as Ida fell backward on her hind end. She turned and left the room.
She ran down the stairs, amazed at the rage that would not abate. Shaking out the pain in her violent hand, she hustled down the blocks, heedless of any Yankees standing about. Just let them try to molest her!
What Ida had said was true. She had not lain with Rulon. They had tried, but bitter circumstances prevented their union.
She stormed into her own house, shaking, wishing she had torn out Ida’s hair, but knowing it was better to get away from the wayward minx. Shivering, she escaped toward her room, found Rulon alone, and stood in the doorway holding the letter she had never finished reading.
“I wore him out,” Rulon said in a sleepy voice. “He’s taking a nap.”
She began to cry, almost certain he had all his manly parts, but ashamed that she had not been more attentive, more loving. Perhaps he now had no interest in her. After all, it had been months since that distressing attempt on New Year’s Eve. In truth, his distressing weakness had frightened her. She had not wanted to press him with her needs, but perhaps he no longer wanted her. She gulped, hiccoughing now, then sobbing again as Rulon rose and came toward her.
“Mary?”
“Do you want me?”
“Mary, Sugar,” he sighed, wrapping his arms around her. “Hush, now. Hush.”
She leaned into his chest, wetting his shirt. She thumped his shoulder, away from his wounds. “Do you want me?”
“I do,” he whispered into her hair. His arms tightened.
“She stole my letter.” She shook it until the paper rattled. “I had not read it through.” She listened to the horrible breaking of her voice. How can he care for such a ninny?
He didn’t ask who she meant. “My precious Mary. Come. Sit. I will read it to you.” He sat in the rocking chair, holding her on his lap, and took the paper from her hand. “My beloved wife,” he began, and read it to the end, his voice trembling with emotion. He ended with, “Ever, your Rulon,” and held her closer than before.
Mary turned her head and stretched up to kiss him on the mouth. “Show me,” she whispered against his lips.
No dunce, he did.
~~~
Rod — April 28, 1865
Rod stalked around the room, slapping one fist into the other. “Carl should be home by now.”
Julia glanced up from her ever-present mending. “Husband, he may have gone south. You told me about the army in the Carolinas.” She paused, then said quietly. “He’s stubborn enough to not give up.”
He turned on her, scowling. “He may be rotting in a grave and us without a whit of knowin’.”
“Could he be a prisoner?”
Rod looked at his wife. She had sounded hopeful, as though being in prison was better than being dead. He immediately repented of his scornful thought. Even if his son was in prison, he was still breathing. Not like Peter. Not like Ben. Alive.
He stood still and let his ire drain away. It wouldn’t help his thinking. He had to admit to himself that anger never did. At last he was ready to consider the possibilities with rational purpose. “His name hasn’t shown up on a casualty list.” He said it almost like a sigh.
“No,” Julia agreed.
“If he went south, there’s no way to know until he comes home.”
“Yes.”
He wished Julia would cry, mourn Ben’s death as the Allen girl had done. It worried him that she hadn’t shed a tear yet. It couldn’t be doing her any good.
The Allen girl. He had to stop thinking of her by that name. She counted herself an Owen now. He shook himself. His mind seemed to wander off too much lately. He wondered if grief did that to a body.
Carl. “If he’s a prisoner, we won’t get word.”
“They wouldn’t keep him now that the war’s done, would they?”
He didn’t know. He shook his head.
“Then we wait.” She looked down and took a stitch.
She seemed so calm.
“One thing I learned about the Yankees,” he said, “is they keep records. Good records. If he’s a prisoner, there will be a record of him in Washington City.” He rubbed his thumb across his forefinger. “I should leave this week.”
“No!”
He jumped at the harshness in Julia’s voice.
“I can’t wait around forever.”
“We wait and give the boy time to get home. If he doesn’t come in a month’s time, you can go.”
Simple. Direct. His Julie’s mind was working clear and true, even in the midst of this trouble. He moved behind her, put his hand on her shoulder. He gave it one pat. She placed her hand over his. The warmth eased his anxiety. For Carl. For her. If her mind was working, her tears would come loose sometime.
~~~
Mary — May 10, 1865
Mary stood on the corner, watching the Federal cavalrymen parading themselves down the street like they owned Mount Jackson outright. She shivered. Men ought not to take upon themselves such self-righteous airs.
When they had passed, she stepped into the street to cross, but hesitated as one horseman wheeled and gave her the eye, then smirking, joined his fellows in their haughty procession.
“Yankees!” she said, spitting into the dust. The action made her half ashamed of herself, but she had been through just about enough turmoil for a lifetime. She didn’t need to feel insulted every time she put a foot outside her door.
She finished crossing the street, slowing her pace so as not to show a shred of fear. I won’t give them the satisfaction.
She walked a block, then turned a corner to a blast of laughter coming from Fletcher’s Tavern. She stopped. Did she dare to walk past the door where a bunch of soldiers had congregated in plain daylight to drink spirits and behave in outrageous ways? She crossed her arms against her bosom, shivering again. She’s heard whispers of women being assaulted when they ventured into the streets of Mount Jackson at night. Did the same danger present itself here? She decided to be on her guard and take another route to her destination.
Another peal of laughter unnerved her, and she backed around the corner, chest heaving as she took in great gulps of air. Oh Rulon. I wish you were strong and whole again.
~~~
Julia — May 16, 1865
The rap on the front door startled Julia. Strangers used that entrance. Someone at the front door almost always meant bad news or unwelcome company.
She got slowly to her feet, abandoning her mending. Everyone in the family but Carl was accounted for. Was someone here to tell her that he, like Peter and Ben, would never come home?
She moved toward the door on limbs that felt as heavy as pig iron bars. She opened the door. Ella Ruth Allen stood on the porch, dressed from bonnet to hem in black. Only her white face broke the somber color of the trappings of grief.
“Oh!” Julia said, and swung the door wide.
The girl stepped inside and put out her black-mitted hand, seemingly unsure what manner of greeting to offer.
Julia took it, pressed it between her two hands, then led her deeper into the room.
“I don’t know how to call you,” Ella Ruth said in a whispery voice. “Your comfort when you came— You are Ben’s— I am Ben’s—” She sank into the chair Julia offered.
“I reckon we’re beyond the stage of formality,” Julia replied as she sat.
Ella Ruth nodded. “We cannot be formal. He was... ” She faltered, looked at her hands, clenched them until they went white, pulled her back straight and erect, and looked at Julia again. “You are my mother-in-law.”
“Ben thought not.”
“He is... was mistaken.” Ella Ruth stopped speaking for a moment, and Julia allowed her time to compose herself and gather her thoughts.
“There was no one to marry us. Mr. Moore, the mayor, even the Dunker preacher, they were all gone.” Ella Ruth’s voice had a tinge of desperation. “We even considered a military officer, except I would not be married by a Yankee.” She paused again. “Ben agreed. He was in danger of capture every moment he was away from the army.”
Julia asked a question that had been burning a hole in her soul. “Why was he with you? Did he desert?”
“Never! He was shot in battle. I kept him safe while he healed.”
Julia let the anxiety leave and replaced it with unease of another sort. “You could not marry, yet you claim kinship to me.”
The statement hung between them for a moment. Ella Ruth broke the silence with a sigh, then said, “Poppa’s slaves. They used a wedding ceremony that he recognized as binding. Ben and I jumped the broomstick.”
“Jumped the what?” Julia entwined her fingers and rubbed her thumbs together.
“Broomstick. It’s an old custom among the servants,” Ella Ruth said. She looked thoughtful, narrowing her brows briefly. “Actually, Ben stepped on the broomstick. He was not sound enough to hop.”
Julia nodded. “I see. That made a marriage?”
“We also said words. Vows. He loved me.”
“And you loved him?”
“I love him still,” she said.
Julia sensed the girl’s deep conviction in the matter of her marriage being as real as though they had been church-wed. She let the conviction come across the space between them and into her own soul, felt the comfort it brought. The girl had married Ben. She basked in that surety. Then she remembered a phrase from his letter. She unclasped her hands and placed them in her lap.
“Will there be a child?”
Ella Ruth’s face crumpled and she made a sound of woe. Then she said, “No,” in an agony-wracked voice. She choked back a further sob.
Another silence wrapped around them, and they sat in its embrace.
At length, Julia spoke. “I will call you ‘Daughter’. What will you call me?”
Ella Ruth came off her chair and to her knees before Julia. She grasped her hands. “Will you be ‘Mama Owen’?”
“With all my heart,” she answered.
Ella Ruth buried her face in Julia’s lap and began to cry. When she raised her tear-streaked face, she said, “Poppa and Momma are taking me away to Charlottesville. I may never see you again.”
“You cannot know that,” Julia said. “Charlottesville is not so far from here.”
“Perhaps not.” She sniffed and delicately touched the tip of her nose with her knuckle. “I will not remarry,” she stated flatly. “I will always be Ella Ruth Owen.”
“You will always be my daughter,” Julia replied. “Daughter Ella Ruth.”
~~~
Julia — May 21, 1865
Julia heard the sound of running footsteps coming from the direction of the lane. She stopped grinding corn and looked up as Albert ran in, yelling like the Yankees were still warring with the neighborhood.
“Ma!” The boy stopped, panted, went on. “Somebody’s riding in, mighty confident like.”
She pushed back a loose lock of hair. “Confident, you say? Does he look like a Yankee?”
Albert hung his head. “I mostly just saw him a-coming before I ran in, Ma. But he’s riding real straight and sure of himself.”
“Get your pa,” she said, walking to the corner and grabbing the Sharps rifle. “No Yankees will set foot in this house.”
Julia walked through the doorway with the Sharps in firing position and watched as a horseman in a mud-covered gray coat came down the lane from the pike. That man rides bold, she thought. Bertie spoke the truth.
“Hold up right there,” she called out. “Put your hands where I can see ‘em, and get down off that horse.” She could see now that he was a young man. Maybe a Confederate cavalier on his way home? Best she found out before she lowered the weapon.
He halted the horse and raised his hands but made no other move than to laugh. “You always did look fine with fire in your eye, Ma.”
She sucked in her breath, almost disbelieving the sight of her son’s familiar grin. “Carl?” She took a step, lowering the rifle barrel toward the ground. “Carl! Is it really you? Lawsy, boy, we almost gave up on ever seeing you again.”
Her eyes started to tear up, and she swiped at them with one hand. “Get off that horse and hug your ma.”
He dropped gingerly to the muddy ground and approached with long strides. “Ma, I’m home.” He grabbed her—rifle and all—and swung her into the air.
As he lifted her, she caught sight of a wince that he tried to cover. That, coupled with the dried blood on his face, sent her into a tizzy of worry over his health.
Carl set her on her feet at last, and brushed at the mud he had transferred to her dress. “I’m sorry about the mud, Ma. I had a little trouble with some fellers down the road a piece, and we wrasseled around a bit. Here, let me put that rifle aside. I reckon you don’t want to put a ball into me.”
He took the rifle from her nerveless hands and began to walk toward the front of the house.
She followed him, trying to stop him so she could get a clear view of his face, but he kept walking. “You’re not hurt? What’s the meaning of that blood on your chin, then?” She watched him lean the rifle against the stone wall and took the opportunity, when he straightened up, to get close.
“Here, let me look at you.” She grabbed his arm, and turned him so she could inspect the source of the dried blood. As he squirmed in her grasp, she noted that he appeared to be not much damaged, beyond a split in his lip and several bruises. She moistened the corner of her apron with her tongue and dabbed at his face.
“Ma!” he protested. “It’s just a little cut.”
“And it needs tending to,” she insisted, then hugged him again.
“Look here!” Rod’s voice. Threatening. He could be so formidable.
Julie looked at him, feeling her smile spreading wide as a rainbow. Before she could speak, Carl turned to him.
“Have I changed so much, Pa?” He grinned under his camouflage of smeared mud.
“Rod, it’s Carl. He’s home at last.” Julia swiped at the mud on her face with the apron.
Without a word, Rod wrapped his arms around Carl. After a long embrace, he held him off to look at him, and shook his head. “By gum, you sure got your growth dashing around with Mosby. We thought you were dead, boy, not hearing from you, nor seeing you home yet.”
“Your pa was set on going to Washington City to ask after you.” Julia could not stop smiling.
“I took the long road home. The Colonel disbanded the Rangers about three weeks into April, but me and some thirty others wouldn’t leave him, so he took us south to join up with General Johnston in the Carolinas. Before we got there, we learned the General had surrendered, so Colonel Mosby cut us loose and made us go in to get paroled.” He paused a moment, rubbing at a patch of mud on his nose. “They won’t give him a parole, Pa. There’s a price on his head!”
“I reckon there’s mighty little justice around now, son. Your colonel won’t get fair treatment since Booth shot the President. There’s rumors Mosby had a hand in it.”
“Somebody shot Jeff Davis?”
“The other president, Abe Lincoln.”
“Is he dead?”
Rod set his jaw and turned his back on Carl. Julia reached out for him, but he walked off toward Carl’s horse.
He picked up the trailing reins and came back. “Yes, and it brings hard times upon us. There’s no mercy in the boys running the country now.”
“Mosby had no part in it, Pa.” He turned toward Julia. “Ma. I rode with him day and night for over two years.” He pivoted back toward Rod. “He done no such a thing.”
“I reckon,” Rod said.
“He didn’t. That’s all.” Carl’s stomach growled. He looked at Julia. “Sorry my gut’s so ill-mannered.” He glanced around the ruined dooryard. “It sure don’t look like Phil Sheridan left much hereabouts. We heard about his orders to burn the Valley, but we laughed. Not one of us believed he could do it as long as Jeb Early’s troops were on home ground. How did he do it, Pa?”
“They sent in two and three times our number, son. All we could do was pester them around the edges some.”
“Well, here I am now. I’ll help rebuild the place. This ground will still grow food—if we can get seed.”
Julia watched Albert come out of the shadow of the corner of the house. “Here’s your brother, Bertie. Home safe.”
Carl said, “You can’t be Bertie. He were a little bitty sprout when I left.”
“I ain’t a sprout now. I been growing.” His face bore a frown. “I go by Albert,” he added, his voice a touch heated. “I’ll be fourteen nigh on to Christmas time.”
“You aged a right smart bit, Albert. Been doing most all the chores, I reckon.”
“You left ‘em to do.”
Carl nodded. “I figured you three boys could handle the farm. When Peter died, I was obliged to take his place in the fight.”
“I reckon.” Albert looked at the ground and kicked the mud.
“I didn’t know James would go, too.”
Julia said, “They drafted him.” She moved forward and pulled on Carl’s arm. “Come in and set, boy. Doubtless you’re weary, riding all day. I’ll finish the pone we’re having for supper while you tell your pa what shape the Valley’s in south of here. He’s been seeking news of the state of the Valley ever since he got home.”
“Now Julie, the boy’s just got here. I can quiz him later while he eats.” Rod turned to Albert. “Take your brother’s horse out back and put him in the pen behind the barn. See if you can find some grain. That animal’s come far.”
“Yes, Pa.” Albert took the reins and led the horse around the corner of the house.
Julia got her rifle and went inside. She restored the weapon to its place behind the door, then went back to grinding corn. Carl and Rod came into the house and began to converse before the fire, something about buttons and uniforms and Yankees who had knocked him around.
She asked him, “That’s where you got the cuts and bruises and the mud?”
“I reckon, but they didn’t hurt me none.”
He eased his body to a new position, and she figured he would be plenty sore tomorrow. She’d best give him the bottle of liniment before bed.
Rod’s reaction was typical of his attitude nowadays. He slapped his thigh and spat out, “Yankees!”
Julia dumped the batch of cornmeal into a bowl with the rest she had ground. Pone was getting old, but at least they had corn to make it. Carl and Rod kept up the buzz of their talk as she mixed the meal with a bit of leavening and poured water over it.
As she mixed the bowl’s contents with her large wooden spoon, Carl turned toward her.
“Ma, where’s Marie and the little girl? Ain’t they supposed to help you?”
Julia shook her head at his characterization. “Your little sister is nigh on to twelve years old, boy. We kept having birthdays while you were away.” She looked over at him. “You’ve had a couple yourself. Ain’t you about nineteen now?”
“Closer to twenty, Ma. I ain’t a young’un no more.”
Julia looked at the week-old stubble on Carl’s face. He had grown into a man. “I see you been over the mountain, son.” She laid down the spoon and began the task of forming corn cakes between her hands. “To answer your question, I sent the girls to Mount Jackson to Rulon’s place. Mary’s not feeling well. She’s got Rulon to tend to, so they’re helping out with young Roddy. I wrote you Rulon got hurt bad. Did you get my letter?”
Carl nodded.
“There’s a mite more food in town,” Rod said. “Your ma has her wits scraped down to a nubbin to find us enough to eat since Sheridan paid his call.”
“I sent Clay in with the girls,” Julia added. “He got himself a job at the livery. I only have to find victuals for your pa, James and Albert.”
“And Benjamin,” Carl reminded her.
Julia stiffened. The boy didn’t know. She didn’t fault him for bringing up her deepest sorrow, but his words caused pain to well up out of the place where she’d hidden it away. It swept over her with such force that she thought she would fall to the floor. She saw Rod take a step toward her. Silence hung in the room like a curtain made of combed cotton fibers, thick and heavy and oppressive. Then Rod spoke, his words muffled and measured.
“Benjamin fell at Waynesborough. I had no way to get word home. Your ma only found out when I got here.”
Carl sagged on his stool and dropped his head against his hands. Julia felt her ears ringing hollow, filling her skull with a soft buzzing. She thought she should sit before she fell, but Carl was getting to his feet, turning to face Rod and her.
“I’m powerful sorry,” he said standing stock still. “Benjamin was always such a lucky cuss, full of life, and all. It don’t seem right he’s gone.” Carl bowed his head, took a deep breath, and began again. “Ma, I know he was your favorite son, and I don’t hold it against him. He was the favorite of everybody.”
She felt herself toppling, her face going slack like she was blacking out. Carl took two steps and had her in his arms, holding her up, patting her on the head and shoulders. She clung to him, struggling against the dammed emotions she needed so badly to unleash. She felt as though a serpent wrapped around her ribs so tightly she could scarcely breathe.
“There now, Ma, you cry. It’ll do you good.”
She wanted to cry. She hadn’t been able to do it since Rod had brought her word.
Rod’s arms came around the two of them. “The boy talks sense, Julia. You ain’t cried since you got the news. Let tears come and wash out the grief you been carrying around.” His voice became gruff as he said, “I reckon I already done my sorrowing.”
The remembrance of her husband sobbing over the loss of his sons cut through the snake binding her heart. The tears came in a great torrent that let her heart expand. She wailed. She cried out. She drummed her fists against Carl’s chest.
Her men waited, suspended, as her sobs tore the air. After a long, long time, she quieted, wiped the tears from her cheeks with her apron, and stepped out of the men’s arms.
Exhausted, yet strangely renewed, she said, “I reckon that’ll have to do for Benjamin. The living need their daily bread.” She went back to the table, wiped her hands, and went to work again on her supper preparations. Carl was home. Rulon was on the mend. The family was now as whole as it could get after the terrible conflict. Somehow, they would survive.
~~~
Mary — May 24, 1865
Mary sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from her husband. She found her voice and asked, “Rule?”
After a moment, he answered in a voice burred with sleep, “Love?”
In truth, she’d been sitting there for some time, endeavoring to find more courage than she thought she possessed. Butterflies flitted through her stomach. Will he be pleased?
Exhausted with the emotion she’d been wrestling all afternoon, she felt the need to rest her dithering head, to lie close to him. She rose, pulled the sheet free, and slipped beneath the covers. Rulon turned on his side and laid his arm across her body, just under her bosom. The warmth from his skin heartened her, and she asked again, “Rule?”
A sigh escaped her lips before she could tumble any more words out, and she sensed him coming awake.
“I’m here.”
Let him be pleased. She turned toward him, lightly touching his cheek. “Husband.” She paused, choking back her joy until she knew his mind. “Rulon. I am... increasing.”
His arm tightened, drawing her closer, pulling her against him. “Sugar,” he murmured against her lips. “My sweet Sugar.”
The End