“Emmett Zachary?” Jake repeated, uncertain if he’d heard her correctly. But her expression, filled with heartrending anguish, confusion, and—could it be—a glimmer of relief, told him he had, then told him far more.
She bowed her head, her breath coming hard, same as that of the wounded soldier in the bed. After a moment, she lifted her gaze and tenderly laid a hand on the man’s bandaged forehead.
“Shhh,” she whispered through tears. “It’s all right, Emmett. Your Kate will be overjoyed to see you. To know you’re alive.”
Zachary sucked in a breath, his body shuddering. He attempted to speak but his voice came out raspy from disuse, the words scarcely intelligible.
“You don’t have to talk right now,” she said softly. “It’s all right.”
But he shook his head, determination in his eyes. She reached for a cup of water and a cloth on the bedside table and held it to his lips. He drank, coughing as he did, water running down his chin. She dabbed it away with the cloth and leaned closer.
“I’m s—” His voice broke. Fresh tears slid down his temples. “—sorry . . . Mrs. Prescott.”
She took his hand in both of hers and a moment passed before she spoke. “Were you with him? Were you with Warren when he . . .” Her voice faded.
The answer showed clearly in Zachary’s eyes even before his slow, single nod. Then he squeezed his eyes tight as though reliving the awful memory, and she bowed her head, her shoulders gently shaking.
Jake felt a coolness on his cheek but didn’t bother wiping the tears away.
Mrs. McGavock stared, unblinking, her face pale. “So you’re certain then, Mrs. Prescott?” she whispered. “There’s not a chance that another mistake has been made? That—”
“No, ma’am.” Aletta shook her head. “We’re certain.”
Aletta felt as though she couldn’t possibly have any tears left in her, yet they kept coming. She was weary beyond comprehension. Her eyes ached and her head throbbed. It seemed like this day might go on forever. She looked over at Jake seated on the settee opposite hers, and he seemed to understand her unspoken request.
He leaned forward. “After visiting with Corporal Zachary earlier today, Mrs. McGavock, it became clear what happened. Second Lieutenant Prescott—” He paused. “Mrs. Prescott’s husband, Warren, was killed on the sixteenth of October when his division came under fire from a regiment of Federal troops outside Nashville. They were outnumbered ten to one. Zachary saw the Second Lieutenant get hit. Multiple times.” His voice softened. “He said that Mrs. Prescott’s husband was dead before he hit the ground.”
Aletta bowed her head, grateful to have learned that Warren hadn’t suffered. That his death had been swift.
“The Federal army was closing in,” Jake continued. “So our troops had to retreat, which meant leaving behind those who’d fallen. It was several days before the ambulance corps was finally able to get back in and collect the bodies. But the Second Lieutenant couldn’t be properly identified—until they found a letter in the pocket of his trousers. It was addressed to Mrs. Emmett Zachary, so—”
“They made the assumption,” Mrs. McGavock finished for him. “But why was he carrying a letter for Mrs. Zachary? And further, does the woman know yet that her husband is alive?”
“Yes, ma’am, she does,” Jake answered. “We went straight to Mrs. Zachary’s house after we left the hospital. As for Warren Prescott having a letter addressed to her . . . we wondered the very same thing.” He paused and looked at Aletta.
She took a breath. “As it turns out, Mr. Zachary can’t read or write. He would dictate his letters home to Warren, then Warren would address the envelopes and mail them. Mr. Zachary said that Warren had gotten leave to go into town to mail both his letter and Warren’s the next day. So . . .”
Mrs. McGavock briefly closed her eyes. “So your husband was carrying both letters. But that doesn’t account for what happened to the letter he’d written to you, and why that wasn’t found. And why they mistakenly identified Emmett Zachary as your husband.”
“Actually—” Jake looked from Aletta to Mrs. McGavock. “That was made clear as well. Zachary shared that he’d seen Second Lieutenant Prescott put a bundle of envelopes in his front coat pocket that morning. So when the Lieutenant got shot, Zachary stopped. The Corporal said that even though he didn’t think anyone could live through such an assault, he wanted to be certain the wound was fatal. He also wanted to close Prescott’s eyes.” Jake’s voice went soft. “Then he grabbed the letters and retreated with the others. Zachary said he intended to mail the letter to his wife, which he thought was in the bundle. But his division was ordered south to Chattanooga and they never met a mail wagon on the way. So later, when Corporal Zachary was wounded and brought in—”
“They found the bundle of letters and once again assumed.” Mrs. McGavock sighed.
Jake nodded. “Which you can see how they could. More than once I’ve walked battlefields where dozens of bodies couldn’t be identified. It’s not at all uncommon.”
Aletta drew in a breath. “With the extent of Corporal Zachary’s injuries, even I didn’t realize it wasn’t Warren until the man opened his eyes. They favored each other in build and in coloring. Almost could have been brothers.”
The tick-tock of a clock marked off the seconds somewhere behind her.
Mrs. McGavock rose from her chair and moved to sit beside Aletta on the settee. “I’m so sorry for your loss, my dear. Not only once, but for a second time.”
Mrs. McGavock drew her into an embrace and Aletta briefly closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw Jake staring at her, the same mixture of guilt and relief in his expression that she felt in her own.
After a moment, Mrs. McGavock drew back. “But wait . . . if Mr. Zachary had a bundle of letters with him, then that means—”
Aletta reached into her reticule and withdrew the bloodstained envelopes tied with twine. “These are the recent letters I’d written to him.” She bit her lower lip. “And the last letter he wrote to me.”
She smoothed a trembling hand over the familiar handwriting on the envelope, still sealed and unread.
Later that evening, Aletta sat on the edge of the bed holding the envelope, Andrew finally quieted and asleep beside her. She slid her forefinger beneath the sealed flap of the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper.
She started to unfold it, then paused and closed her eyes, not to whisper a prayer but simply to . . . be still. And to recall happier memories of Warren than the ones today had given her.
She turned her thoughts back, back, back . . . like thumbing through the pages of a well-loved book. And after a moment, she could see him. Warren’s face so clear in her mind, his smile, the joy lighting his eyes when he would toss Andrew high in the air and catch him and hold him close. She could see his handsome features in the soft glow of lamplight as he’d sat by the hearth reading at night before they retired to bed.
Emmett Zachary hadn’t been surprised to find her with child, so at least she knew that Warren had gotten that letter she’d written. He’d known they were going to have another child.
She let out a sigh, opened her eyes, and unfolded the letter. Her gaze went first to the date—9 October, 1863, almost two months ago today—then to the familiar script.
My dearest Lettie,
This will be brief, but I trust that after my last three ramblings earlier this past month, you may find this discovery more of a relief than a disappointment.
Three rambling letters . . . that she’d never received. She read on.
The sun is rising, and we’ll soon break camp. I wish you were here, Lettie, right now, only for a moment, to share the dawn with me. Or even more, I wish I were there. I miss you and Andrew more than I thought possible, and I’d already set that expectation mighty high.
I hope you and the baby are well. It pains me more than I can say not to be with you during this time. I’ve recalled, on more than one occasion, the conversations we had about this war before I left. And while I still believe, more than ever, in our cause, I do believe you were right, my dearest. That the cost, to both sides, will be greater and leave a far deeper and more lasting wound than anyone anticipated at the outset. I could never have imagined the horrors and indecencies I have witnessed over these long months during our separation. And I wonder if our nation will ever fully heal from this wound that we have inflicted upon ourselves.
If God is gracious enough to hear my prayers, and I believe he is and does, then may he answer them and see me through this journey and back to you and Andrew. And to our precious child yet to be born.
Though I am not so far from you in the span of distance, I am yet another world away. But no matter where I am, my love, know that I carry your love inside me and that I am holding you close even now, recalling the sweet smell of your hair, the warmth of your smile, and the melody of your laughter. I cherish you more than words can say, and eagerly await the day our family will be joined together once again.
As ever, your faithful and
loving husband,
Warren
Aletta read the missive again and again, her tears moistening the bottom of the page. Then she pulled back the bedcovers, removed her boots, and, still fully clothed, slipped between the sheets. She extinguished the lamp, letter still in hand, and lay unmoving in the darkness, grieving the love she’d lost with Warren’s passing, for the second time. And also the seed of what might have been love, one day, with Jake.
Because if today had shown her anything, it had shown her she wasn’t strong enough to go through this again. To love someone and lose them. She didn’t want to be that strong. And when Jake returned to his regiment, which he undoubtedly would following the auction, there were no assurances that he would come home. On the contrary. The growing number of widows helping with the auction who filled the church every day attested to that.
No matter where I am, my love, know that I carry your love inside me . . .
Love outlasted this life and carried on into the next. She believed that with all her heart. But that was just it. She’d given her heart once, and now it felt as though half of it had been ripped from her chest—all over again. Did she knowingly want to open herself to that kind of pain a second time?
She turned onto her side, the baby moving within her as she did, and stared into the white-hot embers of the fire in the hearth, listening to the sharp crackle and pop of the wood as it succumbed, without a choice, to the flame.