Widow of Gettysburg (32 page)

Liberty’s eyes grew wide, and Bella could tell she never considered what Bella had risked by staying by her side. “I didn’t ask you to stay.”

“True enough, Miss Liberty, true enough. Then why did I stay, if you weren’t paying me? Why did I help you on Wednesday carry those men out of that flooded basement? Why do I help you run your household when mine sits empty and neglected?” She backed away from the heat of the stove and pinned Liberty with a gaze. It was on the tip of her tongue to say,
You better answer me when I’m talking to you, child.
But Bella bit it back.

“I know you care about my well-being—”

“That’s right. I care about you. But I’ve noticed that you are happy enough to accept my encouragement and help, whether it’s paid for or not, but whenever you disagree with me, you put me right back down in my place.”

Liberty studied her fingernails rather than meet Bella’s gaze again, and Bella turned back to the kettle. Used to be, that was good enough for Bella Jamison. When her last owner had died, the one who had purchased Bella “and her increase” from Pierce Butler, he had willed Liberty to his sister and left Bella a sum of money with which to start her own life, finally, as a free woman. Thank God Fanny Kemble had taught her how to read and write and even arranged for her sale off the plantation
after she told her what Roswell King Jr. had done. In Gettysburg, Bella had stayed close enough to watch her daughter grow into womanhood, but far enough removed that Liberty could enjoy the freedom of living as white in a white man’s world. Now that Helen Holloway was in the grave, Liberty could do as she pleased with her own life, even though she had been born a slave. She would not have to scrap together an existence, like Bella did. She would not have to keep her head down and take orders from women whose skin shone brighter in the sun. Liberty would never have to wonder if she’d be sold into slavery. She could just … live. Without fear. Without apology.

That was fine with Bella, had always been fine. Until now.

“You’re playing with fire, Miss Liberty.” More like she had jumped into it, heart first.

“I told you, he said he wants to be my friend, nothing more.”

“That’s how it starts. Would you be willing to hand over your heart to a stranger like him if he asked for it right now?”

Liberty hesitated, and Bella rolled her eyes. “No, of course not. I barely know him.”

“And he knows that. You’re a Union widow, Liberty. If he approached you any stronger, he knows you’d put a stop to it at once.”

“No, that’s not true. He doesn’t even want me to be his nurse.”

“Are you really so blind? Of course he doesn’t want you to be his nurse. He wants you to see him as a man, not as your patient.”

Color bloomed in Liberty’s cheeks and Bella bit back the question burning in her mind: If given the opportunity, would Silas take advantage of a black woman now? A mulatto? A quadroon?

Bella had not detected any malice from him toward her, as a colored woman. But Bella didn’t make waves. She did not concern him. If he discovered that Liberty was one-quarter Negro, that would mightily concern him, she felt sure.

“Why are you so willing to condemn him? Just because his father was an abusive slave master? Silas’s back is rippled with scars from taking a lashing in the place of a slave woman!”

As if that was a guarantee of lifelong integrity. But loss and pain and grief and fear changed people. He had lost a leg for the Southern cause, had taken an interest in a woman he thinks is white.
If he finds out she is a quadroon, what will he do?
Just because he does not support slavery does not mean he would be happy knowing Liberty is not pure white.

If Bella wanted to keep Liberty safe from her own identity, she could not share her concerns with her. Secrecy was the only solution. Sweat beaded on her face as she watched the spoon in her brown hand circle the pot. She was going in circles, stewing and sweating for Liberty. But this was what mothers did.
And whether or not she’ll ever know it, Liberty will always be my daughter.

All she could say was, “Be careful. You don’t know him yet. I don’t trust him. He’s Southern.” But the label did not carry the weight for Liberty that it did for Bella.

“You are judging him for who his father was. I can only hope he does not do the same for me.”

Bella jerked. “What do you know of your father?”

“I know he made a mistake by sleeping with a whore who tried to use me as a bargaining chip with him to secure her own lasting comfort. My father made a mistake in the heat of passion, but my mother was far worse. She was cold, calculated. She would do anything to better her own situation, including having a baby she never intended to love. She never intended to love me.”

Shock rippled through Bella. “Who told you these things?”

“My aunt Helen.”

“And that’s what you believe? That your mother never loved you?”

“Is there a reason to believe otherwise?”

Trapped, Bella’s chest heaved with breath. Finally, “Every mother loves her child. Even if they aren’t the best at showing it.” She looked directly into her daughter’s eyes. “Your mother loves you.”

“My mother is dead.” Liberty’s eyes hardened into blue ice.

Bella grabbed her shoulder, the flesh of her flesh. “Hear me, child. Your mother loved you.”

She twisted out of Bella’s grip. “I am not a child! I am not
your
child, I am no one’s child. I am an orphan. And how would you know how every mother feels? You have no children.”

Bella stood back as a wall shot up between them, a barricade of deceit and hurt and shame and fear.

“You’re right, Miss Liberty. I have no children.” After Liberty was born, she had made sure of that.

“And as I cannot pay you for your services of the last week—indeed, I know not how I’ll pay for your services forthwith—you are free to go. I truly hope your staying this long has not cost you your other jobs.”

Bella faced her daughter. Liberty’s head was held high, jaw set. She had risen up and taken charge of the situation, just as Bella had taught her. She had grown into the self-assured woman Bella had hoped and prayed for. She was giving orders, not taking them.

And now Bella was free to go.

Outside the summer kitchen, Myrtle Henderson plunged a broomstick into a kettle of water with lye, agitating the soiled clothing.

She marveled at her good fortune.

Since she had arrived at the Holloway Farm Confederate field hospital last week, she had not had a moment’s rest. Though she had expected to stay in the background, need drew her out. Everywhere she went, men called her by name. They needed water, food, bandages, clean clothes, medicine.

They needed her. Hundreds of men wanted Myrtle Henderson. Her lips curved into a shy smile as she stirred the kettle of laundry.
Wouldn’t everyone back home be shocked?
But she did not care to dwell on home. Her father’s purple handprint on her arm had faded to yellow-grey, but the bruise was still there beneath her shirtsleeve, a reminder
that certainly, she was not missed.

In her twenty-seven years, no one, save the little ragdoll she kept in her pocket, had ever wanted to be around her before. Her face was too wide, her smile too large, her cheeks too ruddy, her figure too shapeless, her hands too rough. She was taller than her peers, and had never understood how to break into those elusive circles of female friendship. Myrtle had always been an outcast, and painfully shy. If anyone called her anything, it was Myrtle the Turtle, for the awkward habit she had of pulling her head down into her neck when she was nervous, a subconscious effort to appear shorter, she supposed, or to disappear altogether. People could be so mean. But not her dolly. Dolly always listened, always smiled at her.

Leaning on her broomstick for a moment, she looked out over the yard, the house, the barn. No one here compared her to a turtle. In fact, many men had called her an angel, especially when they learned she was a Southern-sympathizer. The slightest compliment or words of thanks sent shivers of pleasure through her as she brought dippers of water to their lips, or pulled combs through their hair, looking for vermin. She had never talked to so many men before in her life. Not counting the few times she had defended herself from her father’s blows, she had certainly never touched one.

“There you are, Myrtle.” Liberty Holloway rounded the corner of the summer kitchen, looking breezy in a coral plaid dress with belted waist and a ruffled hem.

“You headed to church, Miss Libbie?”

Liberty laughed. “I told you, you may call me Liberty or Libbie. No ‘Miss’ required. And don’t poke fun—all my work dresses have been absolutely ruined—soiled beyond redemption, or cut into bandages. Isn’t it ironic my Sunday dress is all I have left, and not one church is yet open for services? They’re all still crammed full of wounded.”

If Myrtle could look that nice in a dress like that, she’d never take it off, Sunday or no. She did not need to look at her own frock to know she looked like a simple peasant next to Liberty. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Silas Ford needs the doctor’s attention. Dr. Stephens is available, but he may need an assistant as he changes the plaster strips on his stump. Would you be willing?”

Heat crept up Myrtle’s neck, until she could feel the warmth blooming in her cheeks. “Yes, of course.” She left the broom where it was and headed to the barn.

Why Silas Ford had been asking for her, Myrtle Henderson, was a mystery to her. No, it was a small miracle. He was easily the most handsome fellow of the entire hospital, and brave, suffering in silence what would have driven other men to screams. And he was asking for her, again.

By the time she reached the barn, Dr. Stephens was already there next to Silas. Straw whispered beneath her feet as she joined them, her heart beating outside her chest at the sight of Silas’s body, every muscle taut with pain born from his stump.

“Silas, I have run out of morphia to inject under your skin,” the doctor was saying. “But this opium will help. You must take it by mouth. It will numb the pain, relax your muscles. All right?” Silas swallowed the dose, and Myrtle watched his face. The lines in his forehead did not go away.

“How’s that for you?” Dr. Stephens asked.

“My stump still burns.”

Promptly, Dr. Stephens dipped a sponge in a basin of water, then wrung it out over his bandages. Instant relief shone on Silas’s face.

Dr. Stephens cut away the old linen spiraling down the thigh and around the stump and dropped them in a metal bowl on the floor. “Now I need you to drip water from the sponge over these plaster adhesive strips until this entire bowl of water is gone. Do it slowly, carefully, so as not to waste the water. We must soak the strips before we attempt to remove them. I’ll be back shortly.”

Dr. Stephens left to make his rounds in the barn, while Myrtle followed his instructions.

“I appreciate you doing this, Miss Henderson.” Silas smiled.

“Please, call me Myrtle.” She slowly squeezed water from the sponge to dribble over the two strips crossing the seam where Dr. O’Leary had brought his flesh back together in a wobbly seam. Crusty threads hung from each end. Her stomach quailed.

“I’m sorry, I know this must be difficult for you.”

“Perfectly fine, just fine,” she lied. But she would do it for him. She would do anything for Silas Ford, because he needed her. Again, she soaked the sponge in water.

He sighed. “The water feels good.”

“You said it burned, and what better way to put out a water than with fire?” She grimaced, horrified at her blunder. “I meant, fire with a water. No! I mean: I’m glad it helps.” Myrtle’s neck scrunched as she tried to disappear, humiliated.

“Myrtle, I knew exactly what you meant.” He smiled, and the world righted itself again. “Believe me, sometimes my mind is so fogged it’s all I can do to string two words together. I don’t know if it’s from the pain or from what they give me for the pain. So don’t worry. I understand you fine.”

Myrtle lost herself in his kind, green eyes. “I understand you too, Silas. You’re from Tennessee? Divided by loyalties, like mine. It’s tough, never knowing who’s in charge at the time, or who to trust.”

“Mmm hmmmm.” Silas closed his eyes, and Myrtle’s sponge hovered, dry, over his stump. The opium had released pain’s grip, and he was finally able to rest. Good. He was so much easier to talk to after he’d had his medicine. His speech slowed, and sometimes slurred, but that was all right with Myrtle. She was far less nervous about trying to impress him then. When he was relaxed, she relaxed. She didn’t even mind if he fell asleep while she was with him. Then she could say whatever she wanted, could stare at his face without embarrassment.

“Well, you can trust me, Silas Ford. You can trust Myrtle Henderson. I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”

She glanced around. Dr. Stephens was at the far end of the barn, he would not be here soon. Emboldened, she reached up and brushed
Silas’s oak blond hair off his brow.

“You’re so easy to talk to, Silas.” She knew he did not hear her. “You’re almost as easy to talk to as Dolly. And a lot more fun to look at it.”