Words Heard in Silence (24 page)

Rebecca looked carefully at her. She graced her with a shy smile. "Thank you, Charlie."

"Thank you, dear Rebecca."

Charlie cleared her throat. "Um. Rebecca? I, uh, I need to do something here or I will either embarrass myself or frighten you."

She looked at him, not understanding. "Charlie?"

"Ah, I need to get some clothes on."

"Oh yes of course, let me get you a night shirt." She rose from her spot on the bed and retrieved a freshly washed shirt for Charlie. She laid it on the bed, and then, even though she really did not want to, she turned around to give her a bit of privacy. "You would not have frightened me, Charlie."

Charlie could not stand it. She needed to feel her against her body again, if only for a moment. She stepped behind Rebecca and very gently drew her back against her chest. She slid her hands down her arms and then softly wrapped them around her waist, holding her close, burying her face in her hair, savoring the warmth and smell of her.

Rebecca’s mind flashed to the dream she had. Suddenly it was almost too clear. She laid her hand over Charlie's and leaned back . "I feel things when I am with you I have never felt before." She whispered, closing her eyes and enjoying this connection. She wished she would touch her as she had in her dream.

The feel of her body leaning against her naked chest, her shoulders brushing against her nipples was driving Charlie crazy. "If I do not let go of you, I will beg you here and now to make love with me. And I do not want that. I do not want you to decide that I am not what you want. I need you to be sure." She hoped Rebecca understood what she was trying to say.

She gasped before opening her eyes. "If you do not let go of me you will not have to beg. But I am grateful for your patience, Charlie. I want to share so much with you, but I need to work it through." Her heart was pounding so hard she felt light headed, but she did not let go of her, she would have to move first.

Slowly, gently, she ran his hands over her slender waist and up the sides of her ribs, as if she was memorizing her. She leaned down and placed a tender kiss on her shoulder where her nightdress left it bare. "Sweet lady. When you are ready." Then she stepped back, caught up the nightshirt and quickly pulled it over her head. She was breathing hard, her hands itched with the desire to hold her and there was a gaping hole in her chest that Rebecca’s slender form had filled. "When you are ready."

The two of them settled into bed, both a little shy, both a little awkward. Charlie caught Rebecca's hand and brought it to her lips. "Ready for sleep?"

She chuckled. "Not really, I am sorry. If you would like to sleep I can go downstairs for a bit."

"No, I am not exactly sleepy myself. Something about a backrub, I believe."

Rebecca blushed. "I was not trying to...well...you know." she giggled then scrubbed her face to try and rid it of the blush. "Can we talk for a bit? Or I could read."

"Stay here and talk, if you do not mind. I love learning about you, and I find you are one of the few people I am comfortable with talking about myself."

"There is so very little about me to know. I am afraid you know most of it all ready. Tell me something about yourself. Tell me why you joined the Army."

Charlie settled a pile of pillows against the headboard and relaxed, opening her arms for Rebecca to cuddle against her. "This is very nice, dear." A satisfied hum came from the small woman who was resting her head on her shoulder.

"I promised I would tell you how I got the stripes on my back."

Rebecca looked up at him, startled. She had asked for the story of how she joined the army, never guessing that there was a link.

Charlie continued in a quiet voice. It was almost a monotone, lacking emotion. Rebecca was concerned. It was as if Charlie went away, and left only this voice, recounting whatever it was that Charlie was remembering.

"I was born in Charleston, South Carolina in 1829. My father, Mark Russell Redmond, was a merchant who provided all manner of goods and equipment for the merchant fleets that sailed in and out of Charleston. He was a big man, a black Scot, with a stern visage and a tight fist for money. My mother, Emelia Huger DuBosque, was from one of the French Huguenot families, small, delicate, with laughing blue eyes and coal black hair. They were quite a striking pair, I am told. I do not remember my mother well, as I was only four when she died of yellow fever. Mostly I only remember little snippets, like fragments of dreams. I missed her terribly for many years."

Charlie stopped for a moment, the memory of the dream he had of his mother still very fresh in his mind. He realized that the lovely woman cuddled in his arms was the first woman other than his mother who had ever just held him because she wanted to. He tightened his grip on Rebecca slightly, wondering at the feel of it.

"After my mother died, my father became very engrossed in his work. He became more and more distant, and more and more harsh. As I grew, it became obvious that, while I had my mother’s coloring, I had his build. At 15, I was tall, gangly, awkward, and everything that the image of a Charleston lady was not. I think he had hoped I would grow into the image of my mother. All I know is that everything I did disappointed him. It was a very lonely childhood."

Charlie paused there. When he resumed, his voice was even more distant and controlled.

"I can still remember the day like it happened yesterday, the weather, the words, the sounds and smells. It was cold and overcast. It was raining, a needle fine drizzle that seemed to cut right through your skin. I had just returned from taking Papa his luncheon at the mercantile. I settled in front of the big fire in the winter kitchen to dry out my wet hair and dress. Mamie, our cook, had given me a cup of warm soup to help take the chill off."

"As I was drying out, Joshua, the errand boy for our mantilla maker, Madame Préévost, brought in my new Sunday bonnet. I remember thinking "I don’t know why I bother; father always says I look like a boy in girls clothing." But back then, I kept trying to be the daughter my father wanted."

"I remember looking closely at Joshua as he set the hat box down in front of me. He was barefoot and coatless, soaked and shivering from the cold. Mamie brought him a cup of hot soup and a towel, scolding him for dripping all over her nice, clean floor."

"It was pretty funny watching Joshua try to towel off and drink the soup at the same time. The soup won; he drained the cup quickly while barely managing to get some of the bigger drips with the towel."

"I opened the hatbox and just looked at the bonnet. It was lovely, but I remember thinking then that a pretty hat was not sufficient to make me a lovely lady like my father wanted. I was still tall, gawky, bony and too much of a tomboy."

"I remember thinking that Joshua looked like he was not getting enough to eat. He was thin, too thin even for a boy of his age. I wondered if Madame Préévost was having problems. The last bout of yellow fever had severely restricted Charleston’s social activities that year and I suspected her business had been hurt badly. I thought the cold snap would help, as yellow fever is a warm weather disease. Perhaps the winter season would be good for her. But right then, I suspected that her servants were going on short rations."

"I asked Mamie if we had any butt ends of bacon, fatback or shanks or a hambone we could give Joshua as recompense for his errand. She agreed with me; he looked like he was not getting enough to eat. But she warned me that if I took anything out of the meat locker, there would be hell to pay for it with my father. I did it anyway, and promised her that I would be responsible for it."

"We gave the poor boy another cup of soup and sent him on his way with a small package of fatback and the butt end of a ham. It was so sad to see how tightly he clutched that package of scraps to his chest, as if it were a treasure to be carefully guarded."

"I walked upstairs with my new bonnet, and as I did, I remember hearing a loud commotion out on the street. I looked out of the hall window and saw Father there, holding Joshua by the scruff of the neck. There was a lot of yelling going on. I rushed out the front door, hoping to somehow ease the situation. Unfortunately, my father was in full righteous rage. He called Joshua a thieving nigger, a sneak and a variety of other choice epithets."

Charlie paused for a moment. The next part of this story was one of the most painful times in her life. Rebecca was mesmerized. Charlie so rarely opened up like this. She knew instinctively that any story that she recounted with this much detail was intensely important. All she could do was hold Charlie’s hand tenderly, to give support and encouragement. She did not dare say anything for fear that she would disrupt this healthy outpouring of long concealed pain.

Charlie took a deep breath and continued. "I intervened. I told my father that Joshua was not a thief. His response was not what I expected. He said, "if he is not a thief, then someone is. I gave no permission for meat to be taken from my home."

Charlie’s voice became oddly determined. "You know, I could have lied that day, I could have let Joshua take my father’s wrath. But I chose to be truthful. I paid for that truth dearly."

"I told my father that I had taken the meat and given it to Joshua in return for him bringing me the hat. My father’s response shocked me to my core. I expected him to be annoyed, let Joshua go and give me a lecture about being too generous with the family’s resources. Instead, he told me "Then you are a thief. For whether it be you or this little wretch, someone is going to pay for this."

"I could not believe it. The man standing in front of me was not my father. This man, with his face all red, the veins in his neck bulging and the eyes of a rabid dog, was not the calm, stern father I knew. I was terrified, and rightfully so. My father literally tossed Joshua into the gutter, where he grabbed the package of meat and skittered away through the crowd. Papa stalked to the front door where I was standing, took my arm and threw me into the hall, slamming the door behind him."

"He asked if I took his ham. I said yes."

"He asked if I had permission. I said no."

"He asked me if I understood that taking something without permission was theft. I said yes and asked what I could do to make amends."

Charlie was almost rigid. Rebecca was trying not to cry from the pain that was radiating off her body at these harsh memories.

"He said, "You, daughter, will pay the price that any thief would pay. You will be out in the courtyard in half an hour." I had never heard him sound so cold, so angry or so distant."

"Punishments in the courtyard were major events. Every member of the household, down to the lowest slave in the stables, was required to attend. I thought he would do what he usually did, shame me in public for being such a failure and disappointment as a daughter. I was wrong."

"Thirty minutes later, to the minute, I was standing in the courtyard. He kept me waiting there, in the icy rain, for what felt like another ten or fifteen minutes. By the time he came out wearing his oilcloth slicker, I was soaked. I looked into his eyes, hoping to find some bit of fatherly tolerance there. Instead, I saw eyes as cold and gray as the cobblestones under our feet."

"Then it got worse. He commanded me to strip off my shirtwaist. I was horrified. He wanted me to stand before these people in nothing but my chemise and my skirt. I did as he commanded, for I knew that whatever my punishment was to be, it would be worse if I continued to disobey him. Then he drew his hands from behind his back and I saw the whip."

Rebecca cringed. Charlie was very still beneath her, but she could feel her heart pounding. Rebecca took Charlie’s hand, which she had been holding and stroking, and held it to her own heart, trying to give her friend some small amount of comfort.

"He announced my crime, naming me a petty thief. Then he ordered the head stableman to tie my hands to a tall post in the courtyard that was usually used to tie horses, and doubled as a whipping post when necessary.

"After the first blow from the blacksnake whip, all I can remember is burning, searing pain and overwhelming shame. My father was beating me like a recalcitrant slave in front of the entire household. I have no idea how many times he struck me. I wrapped my hands around the ring on the post and hung on. I refused to crumble, to beg or to fall. After it was over, all I can remember is Mamie tending to me."

"I honestly do not know if the whipping or the medicine in the welts afterward hurt worse. I do know that sometime during the course of Mamie cleaning the welts and cuts on my back, I passed out. Even with the immediate treatment, several of the cuts became infected. I was feverish for several days, drifting in and out of awareness. Eventually, I rejoined the world, my back a mass of scabs. The first thing I remember asking for after some water was if my father had been to see to me. He had not. Evidently, tending to a thief was more repugnant to him that tending to his daughter.

"That was what made me leave. To him, I was never the child he wanted, could never be the daughter he expected me to be, and after the whipping, I was obviously no better than a petty thief. I waited until my back healed, then I cut my hair, got a couple of suits of boys clothing and jumped ship for Philadelphia, working as a mess lad. My choices were limited; I had few skills. I could be the world’s ugliest prostitute or I could pass as a man and go in the army. With the troubles in Mexico brewing, the army seemed the better choice."

"In January of 1846, President Polk declared war on Mexico. By the end of the month, I had enlisted in the Army in Philadelphia. After some basic training, I was on my way west, to join the ranks of cannon fodder. After that, I got lucky."

Charlie lay there, still and quiet. But Rebecca could hear his heart pounding. The pain that had driven her to become Charlie instead of Charlotte, the agony of betrayal by her own father, and the unending feeling of inadequacy were written on Charlie’s face and, Rebecca realized, on her beloved’s soul. She did not know where to begin to heal such a deep wound of the soul, or if she had the means to do so, but in that quiet moment, she swore in her heart to try.