Candle in the Darkness (50 page)

I could see that Eli was deeply shaken. He had to sit down. “It ain’t an easy thing to go running off, you know. Esther’s ankles always swelling up . . . and Tessie has my little grandbaby to think about. Ain’t such an easy thing.”

“You don’t have to go far. As soon as you cross over to the Yankee lines you’ll be free. The Yankees are right here in Virginia. They have troops stationed at Williamsburg and Norfolk. I can draw you a map. Here . . .” I opened the book I still held in my hand and ripped out the title page. “Do you have something I can write with?”

Eli simply stared into space. The look of sorrow in his eyes was so profound it broke my heart. “Please don’t give up, Eli. I’m doing everything I can to help the North win this war so you’ll be free, but you’ve got to think of yourself and the others in the meantime. You’ve got to be ready to escape if my father goes through with this.”

“All right,” he finally said. “All right . . . There’s a pencil in that box over there.”

I dug through the wooden crate where Eli kept the horse brushes and some extra lengths of rope. Packed away near the bottom, wrapped in a clean rag, was his Bible—and a pencil. Using the lid of the crate for a table, I drew Eli a map of the route to Williamsburg, explaining it to him as I drew. Then I showed him another route, crossing the James River and going south to Norfolk.

“I want you to tell the others about this,” I said when I finished. “They have to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. I’m quite sure that my father won’t give us any warning, so make sure Gilbert pays close attention to his movements. If Daddy drives down to the slave auction on Fourteenth Street . . .”

“Okay, Missy. We all be ready,” Eli said. He hadn’t looked this sorrowful since the day they’d taken Grady away. “But I’m gonna be praying that God change your Daddy’s mind so we don’t have to go nowhere. God can do that, you know. I be praying that we never have to use this map.”

My task of spying took on a new urgency. The North
had
to win—and soon. For a full week after I’d overheard my father’s plans I lived with the fear that he had already sold some of our servants without my knowledge. Each time a carriage or a wagon passed the house, I worried that it had come from the slave auction, that two burly men would jump out and drag away Ruby or Luella or Gilbert the way they had dragged poor Grady. Then one night while Daddy and I were eating dinner he said, “Caroline, I’ve been forced to make a very difficult decision.”

I stopped eating, waiting.

“I had a meeting with President Davis a few days ago,” Daddy said. “He asked me to return to blockade running.”

“What?” It took a moment for his words to sink in—he wasn’t announcing that he had sold our servants. I closed my eyes, bowing my head in relief. Daddy mistook my reaction for grief.

“I know you’re upset, Sugar, but I have to do it. The Yankees have a fleet blocking Charleston harbor, another squadron at Wilmington, North Carolina—that’s why goods are so expensive. And so scarce. Our soldiers need medicine and guns. . . . The Confederacy needs my help. I’m sorry, but I’m going to do what the president asked.”

“When will you leave?”

“There are a few things I need to take care of first,” he said, looking away, “but as soon as I possibly can.”

I knew by the way he avoided my gaze that one of those things was to sell three of our slaves. They would have to flee tonight unless I could convince my father to change his mind. Then I suddenly had another idea—but it meant taking a huge risk.

“Daddy, can I tell you something?”

“Certainly, Sugar.”

“I overheard you telling Charles’ father that you might sell some of the slaves.”

“Now, Caroline—”

“No, listen. I admit that I was upset about it at first, but I feel differently now that I know you’re leaving. It’s such a huge responsibility for me to take care of this house and six servants all by myself. I’m so worried that we’ll all starve this winter. I agree with you that we should sell some of them.”

“It’s a relief to hear you say that, Caroline. I was afraid you would fuss.”

“No, this war has forced me to change. And I know they have to be sold. If you tell me who to contact, I’ll take care of selling them for you. I could use a week or two to decide which ones to part with—and I know you’ll want to set sail before the winter storm season begins.”

“Are you certain you can do this?” he asked.

“I’m certain.”

He reached for my hand. “You’ve grown into a strong young woman, Caroline. I’m proud of you.”

My father gave me the names and addresses of two slave traders a few days before Gilbert and I drove him to the train station. “What you gonna tell him when he come home and see you ain’t sold nobody?” Gilbert asked as we waved good-bye to him.

“Hopefully the war will be over by then,” I said, “and you’ll all be free.”

When I returned home, my servants came to me, one by one, and thanked me for what I had done for them. I didn’t know how we would all get through the coming winter, but I knew that we would take care of each other and that God would provide.

My new concern was how to continue gathering military secrets without my father. I turned to Sally for help without her ever knowing it. “I’m bored and lonely now that Daddy’s gone,” I told her. “Will you help me plan some parties or something for entertainment?”

Sally, with her vivacious personality, eagerly embraced the idea. “I would love to. We could have musical evenings, put on plays . . . I know all sorts of parlor games. And let’s have a dance, Caroline. Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve danced. Who shall we invite?”

“I was thinking that some of our army officers and government officials and their wives could use some cheering up,” I said. “Your family knows all those people don’t they?”

“Oh, yes. Mother and Daddy know everyone.” She gripped my arm, her eyes dancing with excitement. “I know, we could start a ‘starvation club.’ ”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when everyone gets together for an evening of socializing, but the hostess doesn’t serve any refreshments. In fact, she’s forbidden to serve anything—mainly because no one can really afford it. But it still gives us an excuse to spend an evening in each other’s company.”

Food or no food, an invitation to one of the parties Sally and I hosted quickly became a coveted thing in Richmond that winter, offering welcome relief from the sadness and privation of war. Sally and I also started up the sewing circle again, gathering all the society wives together to knit socks and scarves and mittens for our soldiers. The women’s conversation often proved a richer source of information than their husbands’.

It snowed just before Christmas, burying the ugliness of wartime Richmond beneath a blanket of pure white. Unbelievably, this was the third Christmas we had celebrated since the war began. The night of Charles’ and my engagement seemed like a lifetime ago, instead of four years. Indeed, hadn’t we both lived through a lifetime’s worth of experiences since that night? The fact that no end to this war was in sight made our sorrow worse. As we gathered in church on Christmas Eve, everyone prayed that this would be the last Christmas our men would be away from us. I asked for that, too. But while the others continued to pray that the Confederate States would win their independence, I struggled to surrender to God’s will, trying to pray “Thy will be done.”

Christmas dinner in most Richmond homes was a somber affair. It wasn’t the scarcity of food that caused the sadness but the missing faces at each meal, the ever-increasing tally of loved ones who would never return home. I shared a simple meal in the kitchen with my servants again, a quiet celebration of the fact that we were all together, that no one had been sold. The celebration was enriched by baby Isaac’s robust laughter as he bounced in his grandfather’s arms, pulling on his snowy beard.

I spent Christmas Day with the St. Johns again, but I eagerly looked forward to dinner with them this year because of the secret errand my cousin Jonathan had entrusted to me—delivering Sally’s Christmas present on his behalf. Sally hadn’t seen him in over a year, ever since he’d recovered from his injury and had returned to fight at Fredericksburg. Of course, wrapping paper and ribbons were nowhere to be found, but I managed to make the present look special by covering the little gift box with an embroidered handkerchief from my trousseau and tying it up with a ribbon cut from one of my hats. For the first time in three years, I was anticipating the holiday.

“Special delivery,” I said, handing the present to Sally on Christmas Day. Her family had gathered in her little parlor that morning, huddling around a skimpy fire. “It’s from someone who wishes he could have given it to you himself.”

“From Jonathan? Really?” She was nearly speechless with delight.

“Go ahead, open it. There’s a note from him inside, too.”

Sally carefully untied the ribbon and parted the folds of the handkerchief. I saw her hands tremble as she lifted the lid off the box and pulled out a glittering topaz ring.

“Oh . . . it’s beautiful!”

“It belonged to our Grandmother Fletcher. Jonathan’s father made a special trip into Richmond to deliver it. Read the letter.”

Sally covered her mouth with her hand in a futile attempt to hold back her tears as she read the note Jonathan had enclosed. “He’s asking me to marry him,” she said, looking up at her parents and me. “Daddy. . . ?”

“I know, I know. He already wrote and asked for my permission.” Mr. St. John spoke gruffly, as if unwilling to reveal his emotions.

“Did you give him your blessing, Daddy?”

He nodded, frowning. “Very unusual way to court someone, if you ask me. That’s the trouble with wars, they disrupt all the old traditions.” Sally flew into his arms, hugging him tightly. She hugged her mother, then me.

“Now you and Jonathan are in the same boat as Charles and me,” I said, “waiting for the war to end, praying that it happens soon.”

“Whoever heard of an engagement by mail?” Mr. St. John mumbled, shaking his head.

Later, when Sally and I were alone in her room, I gave her a second letter from Jonathan—to be opened in private, he had said, after Sally accepted his proposal. I sat across from her on the bed, both of us wrapped in quilts to keep warm, and watched her read his letter through twice. The topaz ring sparkled on her finger.

“Jonathan doesn’t want to wait until the war ends,” she told me when she finished. “He’s trying to get a furlough. He wants us to be married as soon as possible.”

“Is that what you want, too?”

She nodded, swiping at her tears before they dripped onto the precious letter and smudged the ink. “I used to dream of a big, fancy wedding in St. Paul’s with flowers and bridesmaids and hundreds of guests,” she said. “I wanted to wear a beautiful gown and sail to Europe on my wedding trip . . . but now none of that seems important anymore. I only want to be Mrs. Jonathan Fletcher for as long as we both shall live. I love him, Caroline. I love him so much.”

I reached for her hand. “I know. I would have gone to a justice of the peace to marry Charles the last time he was home . . . but he wouldn’t do it.”

“Why not? I know how much he loves you.”

“This is hard to say, Sally, but he says he doesn’t want to leave me . . . a widow.”

The memory of Charles’ terrible words sliced through my heart:
“Caroline. You must prepare yourself for the fact that I might die.”

I looked at Sally’s stricken face and was sorry I had raised the specter of death on such a joyful day. “Your wedding to Jonathan might not be a lavish one,” I said quickly, “but we can make sure it’s a wonderful one. Let’s plan it together, shall we? Then everything will be ready the moment Jonathan walks through the door. You won’t have to waste a single moment of his furlough.”

The idea excited her. “Which dress should I wear? My rose silk is the nicest one I have but it’s old and quite frayed around the hem. Do you think I can open the seams and turn it so it looks new?”

“Let me see it.” As she pulled the dress out of her wardrobe and spread it across the bed, I remembered how beautiful she had looked in it the night of her Christmas party, five years ago. She had stood in her soaring entrance hall, greeting her guests, the stairway behind her decked in candles and greenery. I had been awed by the St. Johns’ wealth, their magnificent home, their countless servants. We had no way of knowing on that joyful night what the future held for all of us, that war would ravage that prosperity, that Sally would have to remake a five-year-old dress into her wedding gown. And we couldn’t know what next Christmas would bring, either.

For the second time that afternoon, I recalled Charles’ terrible words:
“Listen now. I’ve had to prepare myself . . . and you must, too.”

Quietly, tenderly, I felt the Lord’s presence surrounding me, drawing me to Him, coming to dwell among us as He had that first Christmas. As the angels had sung their song of joy, no one in Bethlehem had known about the coming tragedy of the cross— or the triumph of the empty tomb. I couldn’t know my future either, but I could trust the One who held it in His hand. I opened my heart and my hands to God, offering Him my dreams, trusting in His resurrection power.
Thy will be done
.