Widow of Gettysburg (9 page)

“Done!” Amelia beamed and grasped Libbie’s hand. “Congratulations on your first customer!”

“You mean—”

“That’s right, my girl! If you won’t accept me as family, I’ll rest content as a paying customer. Would you accept one dollar per night?”

Liberty gasped as she did the math in her head. Seven dollars a week! Of course, she’d need to use some of that money for more provisions if she would be feeding another mouth. And much of the funds should go toward obtaining a horse and purchasing furnishings for the rest of the rooms … Every room could have a theme, with the quilt as its centerpiece. She knew just what to do …

“I can work, too,” Amelia added. “I’m still strong. Give me some chores, and I’ll see to them.”

“I don’t suppose you would be willing to pluck some chickens, would you? I just so happen to have three dead hens and a rooster we need to make use of before they spoil.” She’d never admit it to Amelia, but she still couldn’t clean a bird without feeling sick to her stomach.

Amelia nodded. “I make a delicious chicken pot pie, if you’ve got the vegetables.”

“There are some onions, carrots, and beans in the garden that are ready for picking. You make dinner. I’ll work on cleaning some of yesterday’s mess. Would that arrangement be agreeable for you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well then, let me show you to your room so you can freshen up first.” For the first time in a very long time, Liberty felt as young as she really was. “Welcome to Liberty Inn!”

W
hite hot pain reached up Bella’s neck and wrapped its fingers around her skull. After hours of listening for the blood-curdling Rebel yell, she had fallen asleep tightly curled inside an empty barrel in her cellar. The musty smell crawled inside her nose and pulled her out of her sleep well after sun up. Only when she timidly moved her muscles did numbness give way to cramping. She would have to take her time getting out of this barrel.

THUD THUD THUD.
Bella froze. Someone was knocking on her door. Had the Rebels come to search her place at last? The ability to pray escaped her. Terror seized her. She bowed her head low and hugged her knees to her chest, darts of pain spiking across her shoulder blades. Even her toes curled under as her body tried to disappear.

THUD THUD THUD.
Perspiration beaded at her hair line, rolled down her forehead and clung to the end of her nose before dripping
onto her crumpled apron. In seconds, dampness spread beneath her armpits and across the small of her back.

THUD THUD.
“Bella! Are you in there?” Shock replaced fear at hearing her own name being called. Her eyes popped open, though it was still pitch black in the barrel.

“Bella! You in there, baby? It’s safe, you hear? Them Rebels ran off! You safe, baby!”

Bella gasped at the sound of Aunt Hester, then found her voice after being silent for more than eighteen hours. “I’m here!” she shouted. “In the cellar! Wait!”
Oh, why in heaven’s name hadn’t Hester said who she was earlier?
Too relieved to be irritated for more than a moment, Bella unfolded her body and stumbled awkwardly out of the barrel. “Wait!” she called again as she tripped toward the stairs.

By the time she opened the door, Aunt Hester was laughing. Bella kissed her and pulled her inside, and laughed with her, releasing a dozen emotions locked inside for too long.

“You fine, baby, you fine.” Aunt Hester was saying. “See? Them Rebs done come to town, but the Lord watched out for you and me. Just like the Good Book says. We fine, ain’t we now?”

Bella rolled her neck and rubbed her aching shoulders. “Are you sure they’re gone?”

“Sure as sugar, baby. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know for sure. The little McCreary boy, Albertus, done told me so hisself, and he been tracking those soldiers for days.” She let out a throaty laugh, her hands holding her jiggling belly. “Now I best get on back to my work now. Just wanted to check on you, make sure you was fine. And you is. Just like I said you would be.” Aunt Hester winked at Bella and let herself out the door.
Thank goodness for Aunt Hester.

With her stomach growling, Bella pulled out yesterday’s bread, sat at the kitchen table, and ate. So much, in fact, she wondered if she rivaled Liberty’s visitor from yesterday morning—the traveler.

Another knock at the door sounded. Though Aunt Hester had just reassured her that all was well in town, Bella couldn’t help but stiffen.

“Mrs. Jamison?” Another knock. “It’s Henry Stahle of the
Gettysburg Compiler,
” he called through the wooden door. “I need to speak with you.”

Caution slowing her movements, Bella opened the door.

“I have news of your husband.” His puffy white face was grim.

Bella’s hands flew to her cheeks. “He isn’t—he’s not—” Her knees began to weaken. This was too much, this couldn’t be happening, not—

“Dead?” He huffed. “I think not.”

A second wave of relief flooded her before she regained her manners. “Please.” She held the door open and stepped aside. “Do come in.”

He cleared his throat. “I think not. I just wanted to give you something that came across my desk at the paper.” He thrust a dispatch toward her, holding the very end of it to be sure their hands wouldn’t touch in the transfer. “You can read, can’t you?”

He appeared relieved when she assured him she could. The top of the paper read:
“THE WAR IN GEORGIA: THE DESTRUCTION OF DARIEN.”
From the
Savannah News.

Her blood ran cold.

“Your husband is with the 54th Massachusetts, correct? Under Col. Robert Gould Shaw?”

Her power of speech now gone, she nodded.

Stahle huffed again, swelling his throat up like a bullfrog. “Apparently he’s been involved in destroying a civilian town in Georgia. Now that’s pretty big news, wouldn’t you say? Black troops ravaging a white town in the South? I would ask you for a comment and run a story about it in the
Compiler
, but as you know, we have even bigger news in the making right here in Gettysburg. I’m giving this to you as a courtesy, Mrs. Jamison. If we see any more of Lee’s army around these parts—or should I say, if they see you—how do you think they’ll behave if they find out your husband just torched one of their innocent Southern towns? Does the word ‘reprisal’ mean anything to you?”

She could not have responded even if she’d wanted to. Her mouth was as dry as if it had been filled with sand.

Mr. Stahle pressed a handkerchief to his damp forehead. “Confederate troops just burned down Congressman Thaddeus Stevens’s iron mill in Caledonia for his views on emancipation. Don’t think for a moment they will hesitate to set your neighborhood ablaze if they learn what Abraham has done. Frankly, I love a good story, but I’d rather not see my town set on fire.”

He turned and walked away.

Stunned, Bella latched the door and leaned against it, while the headline shouted at her:
“THE DESTRUCTION OF DARIEN.”
She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

Darien, Georgia. Just the name of the town was enough to unlock memories she had crammed into the farthest corners of her mind. How long had it been since she had been there?
Twenty-one years.

She had been born just across the Altahama River from it, on St. Simon’s Island, in a hut made of oyster shells and mud on Master Pierce Butler’s rice plantation. As a child, she and her twin sister crossed the river to Darien by hollowed-out log most Saturdays to sell moss they had picked and dried from the Live Oak trees, which was used to stuff mattresses and furniture.

Once a month Bella’s family and the rest of the slaves were allowed to attend a Baptist church for slaves in Darien, where they taught her from the Catechism for Colored Persons. She could answer those questions today, word for word, if asked.

How are Servants to try to please their Masters?

Please them well in all things, not answering again.

Is it right for a Servant commanded to do anything to be sullen and slow, and answering his Master again?

No.

But suppose the Master is hard to please, and threatens and punishes more than he ought, what is the Servant to do?

Do his best to please him.

The rote lines rolled through Bella’s mind like a cannonball through barricades she had so carefully erected around those memories. She
clenched her teeth. Religious instruction in that ramshackle, sand-sunk town of Darien had been just one more way their master reinforced the principle of blind obedience upon his slaves.

Now just what did my Abraham have to do with that place?
Seating herself at the kitchen table, she studied the paper. The article consisted mostly of a letter written by a citizen of Darien, which began:

The next few paragraphs detailed the churches that were burned, the milk cows that were shot in the street, and the anger of the writer. From another letter, the
Savannah News
excerpted this:

Bella bit her lip and reread the words, pressing her hand against her furrowed brow. The idea of Darien burning to the ground lit a smoldering satisfaction in the part of her spirit still dark with bitterness. But shooting a negro woman? Abraham wouldn’t do that. And from what he had told her of the 54th, not one of those men would have done that either. Some were former slaves, some were born free, but all of them, he told her, were anxious to prove they were just as brave as white soldiers, and deserved equal citizenship.

Shooting a woman in the head did not prove bravery. Burning a small deserted town—even one that Bella harbored no warm feelings toward—did not prove bravery either. Just the opposite.

This can’t be Abraham’s regiment. There must be some mistake.

But the article declared otherwise. Darien was “destroyed by a negro regiment, officered by white men.” If there was another regiment fitting this description, Bella did not know of it. According to the letter in the dispatch, “They left a book, which I found, and in which the following entry was made, and which, I presume, is a list of the regimental officers.” Bella’s heart dropped into her stomach as she read the names.

And just what would happen if the wife of a “Yankee-negro brigand” would fall into their hands? For pity’s sake, even Adams County, of which Gettysburg was the county seat, was named in the book’s incriminating inscription! One of the three local papers Gettysburg produced was named the
Adams County Sentinel.

The Confederates may have left Gettysburg—at least, for now—but Bella felt as though she were still stuck in that barrel in the cellar. Trapped, and in the dark.