Stand the Storm (32 page)

It was good the army had moved them back—mustering them out at their “joining up” spot. In their confusion and profound weariness the soldiers might have gone off elsewhere. They might have walked off the edge of the earth. Gabriel had doubted he had the strength left to embrace home, but he came toward it like a pigeon.

Gabriel still wore the faded pool of Jacob Millrace’s blood on the front of his shirt. It was the only shirt left to him and the stubborn stain had survived several washings since Mr. Millrace had died.

The regiment had been commanded to hold down in their trenches and be ready to march and meet the enemy. They were to wait for the order to charge, rise as one, and go forward with all that they had.

When the charge was called, within his clothes Gabriel Coats was stewing in a soup of his own sweat and urine. All of the men responded and moved. Jacob came up first, determined to be in front of Gabriel. He shoved Gabriel back into the trench and as he rose above his friend a shot caught him full in the chest and thrust him back collapsing onto Gabriel. Blood shot from Jacob’s chest and coated himself and Gabriel. Under Jacob’s body, shielded from the vicious fire, Gabriel agitated. In this way he withstood the first volley. However, he forgot to hold to the pact and cover himself and turn to simple survival. His mind did not credit it. He stood and fired his weapon and continued as he’d been instructed. A neophyte with guns, Gabriel had nonetheless mastered the loading and firing. He let off with conviction and fury and pulled down a number of charging Confederates before ducking back into a blind on command.

For Gabriel the cruelest moment on that day was the order to move on. The moment came when he must go forward without friend Jacob. All who survived were ordered onward to another position. All of the company’s dead and gravely wounded were left.

Ah, what would become of Jacob’s body? The captain had said he would shoot any man who would not march on, for he would not let it be said that he lost all of his men at this spot. Jacob was stiff and sour when Gabriel collected his pockets. In this his friend was more fortunate than those whose last prayers and imprecations could be heard behind the departing soldiers.

Gabriel had walked off counting each of his own steps to keep himself steady. He mourned Jacob with every step and buoyed himself with knowing he would recall exactly how many footfalls would bring him back to his friend. Gabriel had resolved to remember the location of the trench in case he could return and bring Essie to the spot.

Cunning had kept Gabriel safe this far. He had accomplished the long trek home to Georgetown because of his socks. Aye, some had left toes in trenches where they’d squatted. But Gabriel had kept his feet dry and warm and had persevered. It was simply that! His head swooned when even his shoes wore away to flapping five miles from Washington. The stout socks had sustained him!

That which had brought Private Gabriel Coats thus far ran out of him like sand from a glass. He collapsed in extreme weariness on the threshold of Ridley & Ridley Fine Tailoring and the women maneuvered him into the kitchen. Annie knelt beside him, clutched him to herself, and rose with him. She carried him to be near the stove, and she moved her hands along his body to check for infirmities and wounds. She found him chafed and sore, weary and starved, but all of a piece. She called Mary and Ellen to her and the three of them removed his uniform by gently rolling him back and forth between them.

It was left to Mary to remove Gabriel’s grimy long johns. She peeled the garment away with warm water and laved him intimately, but dispassionately.

The garment removed, she noticed it was decorated curiously. Running her fingers over the soiled, smelling cloth, Mary felt knots and ridges and whorls of thread and recognized a pattern of embroidery. This work extended down the front of the garment where Gabriel’s hands had been available to it.

Mary’s fears had caused her to regress in her book learning as the war progressed—after Gabriel’s leave-taking. She was superstitious that, in picking various scraps of events off the broad-sheets and letter papers, she would give them life and animation. If the newspapers said a thing, would it more likely occur for them pointing at it?

The pattern on the long johns was clear and comprehensible, but Mary did not understand it. Gabriel had embroidered a pattern—had put a reckoning in thread upon his underclothing. He had made a desperate record. She would ask him about it. She did not put the garment to soak.

Gabriel woke from a daylong nap with jerking and fear. He felt his nakedness beneath cool, fragrant covers. His wife and mother and sister had lifted and pulled him upstairs and placed him in bed. He wept as he came to himself, for he was ashamed to feel so comfortable when his companion and friend Jacob Millrace lay in a gulley so far from home.

Gabriel lay in the honeyed bed at the top of the house through several nights and days. The bed was so soft that his body felt more aches with sinking into it. Mary saw the bone weariness in Gabriel and thought he might stay forever in the stuporous sleep. On his second night abed, when she came to the side of the bed to tuck him, he grasped her hand forcefully and pulled her toward him roughly.

“Woman, I have got home,” he said in a low, angry voice that she flinched to hear from Gabriel.

“Yes,” Mary said. “Yes.”

He jerked her to lie on top of his body and held her in a vise splayed on top of him. Her clothes were between them, but both felt each other’s body. Mary tried to shift and pull away from Gabriel as his breathing slowed and she thought he had fallen asleep again. But he gripped her and held on to her and she was made to sleep atop him. Small tears fell off her face onto his neck while she was held so tightly.

Gabriel would have walked to the Millrace place to give the news of Jacob to his beloved daughter, Essie. But Daniel pressed him to take a wagon and a lean, tractable mule.

Gabriel should have had accompaniment, but set out alone in a somber mood. He dared not wear his uniform—colored soldiers in military dress were targets still—though he felt himself naked without it. He plodded along to Millrace’s outlying place because people in town had said that Essie had gone there to stay with the hounds.

Jacob Millrace’s prized hounds were strikingly beautiful. They held their heads rigidly when they stood erect. It was a main feature of their poise and authority. They were intelligent in the eyes and they were ready to impress with their demeanor. Beautiful, too, was the fur that covered them—the fur that was scrupulously groomed by Essie and the hands. There was a variety between the hounds, but the colors and quality of the fur was consistent among the sixteen dogs. They had auburn- to liver-colored patches with chalk-colored bodies. Upon each were variegated freckles of auburn fur in with the white. No two had the same patterning and each was instantly known with a glance. Essie had named all but the original pair, Hercules and Circe. Essie’s Matthew was at head of them all now that his father was slower. Mark, Luke, and John were stalwarts from the first litter of dogs after the fever, and Dorcas and Sara were the first bitches. Sheba, Lizzie, Paul, Ham, Noah, Elijah, Esther, and Shem were the survivors of subsequent litters and were the core of the hunting business.

Word had come to Essie that hands her father had left to care for the hounds had gone off and deserted them. Sick with worry, Essie had left the city and journeyed home to keep the dogs for Jacob. The news of Jacob’s demise had not reached her. No one had cared to come so far out of town to give her the news.

“Is’t Miss Essie Millrace?” Gabriel called from the gate as he approached.

Essie, her companions ringing her feet, looked at Gabriel when he hailed her. He was struck to see the change from her photograph. This woman was likewise sloe-eyed and held herself slim and erect. But the young woman he saw wore a rough hat and patched jacket and her wide shoddy skirt was drawn between her legs and tied to create pantaloons. Her face—the one Gabriel knew so intimately—was only reflected in this visage beneath the hat. It was Essie’s elegantly photographed face, but it was not immobile. In defiance of all womanly convention, this face was in constant movement and ranged in expression from hot to cold temper. It had some dirt upon it.

“Ma’am, may I have a word? You have known me as your father’s friend, Gabriel Coats.”

Essie had no fear of the scraggly stranger, though she could well have. She knew the hounds would put off any interloper and she was coolly confident of them.

“I have word of your father,” Gabriel said, and Essie’s heart leaped fearfully when he spoke.

“What is your news, sir? Say it plainly please,” she demanded warily, not allowing him to come close. The dogs enforced her wishes with staring.

“Lord have mercy, Miss Millrace. Your father is gone to God. He sent me to give you his words,” Gabriel said with some agitation.

Essie sank on the news and fell. The dogs put their heads down and licked her. In fact, only some of the animals licked at Essie’s face and arms while the others turned their hard eyes toward Gabriel to keep him back from her. Gabriel called out her name again and again, and Essie finally roused herself and stood up. She commanded the dogs with a series of cluckings and tongue-suckings and sent them inside the house. One of them—Matthew —took up position at the window and watched Essie from this post. Essie then walked toward Gabriel, put forth her hand to shake his. “Please come into the house, sir.”

The Essie whom Gabriel had so long imagined sitting in her parlor ready to receive him was not the young woman who sat before him now. This woman appeared sturdy, hard-eyed, and flinty, and she seemed a ruler of the subjects arrayed on the floor at her feet. Her authority was unquestioned in this room—on this property.

In a corner of the front room of the large log house was an ornate writing desk. Upon the desk were ledgers and arranged piles of papers and writing implements and accoutrements. Gabriel had interrupted Essie’s business occupation, that was clear. And she seemed impatient to have his news and return to her desk.

“Sir, you are my father’s friend. But you have no claim or interest in any of these dogs. Of that I can assure you. I know my father.”

“Oh, Miss Millrace, I am a tailor. I know nothing of dogs. I have no interest but to bring you word of poor Jacob. He died and I turned out his pockets and collected these things and brought them to you because I pledged to Jacob.” Gabriel nervously pulled an embroidered handkerchief with Jacob’s monogram from one of his inner pockets—near his heart—where Jacob had commended him to place these things and bear them to Essie: a watch, a pipe, and a small leather book with Jacob’s words. Essie let the objects fall into her lap and allowed the cloth to slip from her hand. The small leather-bound journal was the only item of interest to Essie. Gabriel shifted to pick up the handkerchief, but one of the hounds growled and forced him back into his chair.

Thirty-two

A
WELL-DRESSED, GRACEFUL
young woman descended the streetcar on Bridge Street. She wore spectacles and was a good bit taller than she’d been. Her self-confidence was arresting, for she moved along the street with ease, navigating amongst the crowd with a bearing that Gabriel would never have imagined from their Delia.

“Sister, look here,” Gabriel called, looking out at the street through the window.

Ellen bolted from her chair, crying, “Oh!”

“Mary, Nanny, come and see,” Gabriel trumpeted to the other women.

Though she was Delia, the young woman approaching the shop was also a young white woman, moving among the other whites with a prim hauteur that the Coatses had never seen.

“Ma’am, Nanny, Mary!” Delia called out excitedly. She spread her arms to draw the surprised women to her, and Ellen, Annie, and Mary ringed her and pulled upon her. She melted into them and all of the women were joyful.

Gabriel observed sullenly that Delia’s garments were strictly simple, if embroidered highly—exhibiting fineness he had seen only from Ellen’s hand. He could recognize Ellen’s work at a glance from any distance. Gabriel realized that Ellen had not done as he’d asked. She’d not cut off from this girl! A quiet, obedient sister was one pillar he had counted on, and Gabriel felt the picture threatened again by this girl.

Delia wore her costumes prettily and had an exuberant, confident demeanor. Gabriel’s sour look did not dampen her greeting. She was delighted to mark the changes in all, including Naomi, Ruth, and Pearl. She swung the baby, Hannah, high in her arms with glee and baby talk.

“Sir,” Delia called Gabriel when she gave up the baby. “Sir,” she said with a jot of a curtsy, though she might have called him “boy” and it might have appeared the more appropriate. “I have relinquished your name, sir. I call myself Miss Delia Cameron,” she said pertly as she extended her hand to Gabriel. If passersby stared at the respectable young white woman touching a Negro, they did also remark that many things had changed since the end of the war. Most recognized Miss Cameron for whom she must be. Most would think her clabber color to be of that class of local Negroes of some prominence in the town. She could affect the look of these or seem to be a white woman. In Philadelphia she was a promising young schoolteacher—one who would soon go south to teach the newly freed and their children.

It was Ellen she loved—Ellen that she came for. When all entered the back room of the shop, Delia sat down at her old accustomed place at their table. She came straight out and presented her plan to Ellen. In front of the cups of welcome tea, she implored them to give up Ellen, her mother.

“Take up with me, ma’am. Please go south with me. We go to teach among our people. Please go with me, ma’am,” Delia begged sweetly, and sipped her tea. She cajoled her mother with showing how Ellen’s skills were needed. “We might give a leg up to those among the folk who want to rise and make a way.”

Ellen turned her face toward the girl, though she did not look up into her eyes. She was too shy to stare into this familiar, beloved face. Ellen feared she would cry—would begin to wail. And Gabriel and her mam would disapprove of her display. “Yes,” Ellen said quickly to cover the quiet—to reassure Delia. Behind her head she heard Gabriel’s disdainful snort. What of her mam? The silence from her mother was, as always, telling. Did Nanny not have an opinion? Could Nanny never take her bond? Was it that she would always take her Gabriel’s side?