The Lady and the Officer (9 page)

After mailing her letter to the Duncans, Madeline kept busy at the Bennetts. While the minister and his wife nursed the Gettysburg wounded, she packed their remaining possessions and tended their vegetable garden. In the evening, Mr. Bennett returned with a borrowed wagon, and together they loaded up furniture, cooking implements, and linens. Household goods were in short supply, so the Bennetts donated what they could to those in need.

“God will provide when the time is right.” The preacher repeated his mantra not less than a half dozen times. Soon, like their guest, he and his wife owned only one suitcase of clothes. But at least they had a place to stay at the end of the week.

With a heavy heart, Madeline sold Bo to a federal procurement officer for a fair price. A lady couldn't ride all the way to Richmond on horseback, and a carriage would quickly bog down on roads ruined by both armies. After kissing her beloved mare on her white forehead, Madeline sobbed as she was led away. But how could she cry about a horse when countless men lay in unmarked graves a few miles away?

Madeline wiped her face and packed the last of the garden produce into a small basket for her and a larger one for the Bennetts. Waiting on the porch provided plenty of time to ponder the general's offer. Her back still stiffened with indignation at his cavalier invitation to join an army caravan, and yet the possibility of never seeing him again saddened her as much as losing her home. In the last two years, Madeline hadn't given much thought to men, assuming she would spend the rest of her life as a widow. James Downing had swept into her life in a cloud of dust and then vanished almost as quickly.

Reverend Bennett drove the borrowed team up his lane promptly at five o'clock. “All set, Mrs. Howard? Climb on up.” He slapped the seat of the rickety wagon.

“Whatever for?” she asked in surprise.

“To join us for the night, of course. There's nothing left in the house. You can't sleep on bare floors.”

“I planned to walk to Gettysburg tomorrow to catch my train.” She clutched her basket handle with both hands. “Thank you, sir, but I can't impose on your kindness any longer.”

“You can't walk that far in this heat. Besides, Violet found a room for you, free of charge. A widow in town was so grateful to get our furniture, she said you may stay as long as you like. Hers was carried right out of her house while she searched the battlefield for her son.” He shook his head with dismay.

Madeline shuffled her feet in the dirt, unsure what to say. “She's willing to open her home to a stranger?”

“She is. Please, Mrs. Howard. Violet will shake her wooden spoon at me if I don't bring you back.” He offered Madeline his hand.

“All right, sir, but only for one night.” Placing her valise and the baskets in the back of the wagon, she climbed up beside him.

Madeline recalled the afternoon she had accompanied Mrs. Bennett to the seminary hospital. Though she had been eager to put her newfound knowledge to use, she couldn't stop retching in the slop bucket after her first dressing change. Although she forced herself to stay a full day, she realized she had no stomach for nursing. The sight and sound of men in agony, the foul odors—she would have to find another way to serve her country.

Soon she and Mr. Bennett were bumping down a road devoid of traffic. Since the federal army had left Adams County, the constant hubbub had drawn to a close except at the makeshift hospitals. It would be weeks before soldiers recovered enough to return to their regiments, travel home as invalids, or join their comrades in the ground. Madeline turned to Reverend Bennett as they reached the outskirts of Gettysburg. “What will they do with the dead?”

Her forthright question took him by surprise. “The local cemetery is too small. Some official from Washington purchased a large pasture south
of town on Washington Street. A detail of soldiers remained behind to handle the gruesome task of burying most of the fallen. Officers will be sent home for burial.”

“And the Rebels? Surely they won't let them lie where they fell.”

“Certainly not. If officers can be identified, their families will be notified to claim the remains. Otherwise, they will be buried with the enlisted men in a separate section of the new cemetery. Nasty business, war. I pray to never see the likes of this again.”

Madeline nodded, gazing to the east. The reflected sun burnished low hills that had swarmed with cavalry days before.

That evening the widow Buckley served supper on the Bennetts' heirloom table. The reverend and his wife joined Madeline for her last night in Pennsylvania. She was given a quick tour of the house and then hustled into the dining room.

“I'm glad to have your company, Mrs. Howard. I'm not accustomed to an empty house at night,” said Mrs. Buckley, handing Madeline a bowl of turnips.

“I'm relieved to have a bed tonight. Thank you.” She took a small portion before passing it back.

“You may stay for as long as you like. I'm sure they can use another cook in the seminary kitchen. I know for a fact they're shorthanded.” She smiled at her guest from across the table.

Madeline shook her head. “I am grateful for your generosity, Mrs. Buckley, but tomorrow I'm catching the train to Frederick. From there I will go to the war department in Washington, where I hope to obtain a pass to cross into Virginia.”

Mrs. Bennett's lips pulled into a frown. “We can't dissuade you? Truly, my dear, you should remain with your own kind.”

The Bennetts, as well as Mrs. Buckley, were poor as church mice. Inviting someone equally as destitute meant they would have to do with less. Madeline's aunt and uncle might not share her political views, but at least they were wealthy. Another mouth at their table wouldn't present a hardship. “I'm afraid I cannot,” she said, locking eyes with her benefactress. “The Duncans are my kinfolk, so that makes them my kind.”

Several seconds spun out before Reverent Bennett broke the silence.
“Smoked ham, Mrs. Howard?” He passed her the platter. “I read a Baltimore newspaper today at the seminary. I have no idea who brought it in, but we were all eager for news.”

“Shouldn't this matter wait until after supper?” Mrs. Bennett asked, looking uneasy.

“I don't see why it should. As Americans we're obligated to stay informed.” The minister lowered his voice. “Recent immigrants are rioting in the slums of New York City. People are lying dead in the street.”

“Goodness gracious.” Mrs. Buckley fanned herself with a napkin. “Because of food shortages?”

“I dare say not. They're rioting because of President Lincoln's conscription decree. The army is desperate for more troops, especially after the heavy losses here and out West, yet the immigrants refuse to be drafted.”

His wife cocked her head to one side. “They are willing to die fighting conscriptors, but not with valor on the battlefield?”

“So it would appear,” Reverend Bennett replied before bowing his head in prayer.

That night, Madeline slept soundly on a feather mattress. During dinner she had eaten two slices of meat, a hearty portion of vegetables, and a slice of blueberry pie, not knowing when her next meal would be. Her meager finances wouldn't permit eating in fancy hotels.

When she entered the kitchen the next morning, her hostess was already sipping coffee at the table.

“Good morning, Mrs. Buckley.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Howard. The Bennetts left a note for you on their way to the hospital.” Mrs. Buckley handed her an envelope.

With trembling fingers, Madeline extracted a single sheet and began to read.

Dear Mrs. Howard, please don't forget that Cashtown is your home. Our door will always be open to you. And you'll remain in our prayers until we see your lovely smile again.

Even though they had signed with formal names, their sentiments filled Madeline with sorrow. Would Cashtown ever be home again? “Thank you, Mrs. Buckley.” Fighting back tears, she ate breakfast and left the widow's home as soon as possible. Carrying her tattered valise and a sack of biscuits, she walked to the depot with an odd sense of relief. Gettysburg had become a loathsome place—homes and businesses were scarred by artillery shells, and every one of them were filled with wounded. Nothing would ever be the same. After boarding her train that afternoon, she became wedged between a cigar-smoking newspaperman and a young mother with a crying infant. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere, but Madeline was only eager to leave behind a world gone mad.

She spent a sleepless night on a bench in Frederick, not daring to leave the depot. Trains ran at all hours, well off schedule. Had the next train to Washington pulled into the station while she rested in a boarding house, who knew when the next train would arrive? The following day, she bought her ticket from a harried stationmaster and climbed aboard another crowded train. This one carried Union soldiers on their way back to the front line. Once she arrived in Washington, Madeline obtained directions to the war department. Tired and in need of a bath, she stopped at every rooming house she came across along the way. None had rooms to rent… at least, not to her.

Desperate and hungry, she jammed her boot in the next door before it could close in her face. “Please, ma'am. I need somewhere to spend the night. I have money to pay. Perhaps you have space in your attic if nothing else?”

After a sidelong glance, the woman let her in. “For two dollars you can sleep on the cot in the pantry. My former kitchen maid slept there before she ran off.” Without fanfare, the woman showed her to the small cubby, handed her a clean towel and blanket, and pointed out the location of the privy. “Breakfast at eight. Fifty cents. No smoking pipes in the house.” The woman turned on her heel and left her alone.

Smoking pipes? Wasn't this a boarding house for ladies?

Madeline had little time to ponder the odd rule. She washed outdoors at the pump, ate a supper of cold biscuits and raw carrots, and slept as
though on a bed of roses. Tomorrow she would call on the war department and return each day until someone gave her a pass into the Confederacy. She couldn't wait to see Aunt Clarisa and Uncle John. After all, wasn't blood thicker than water?

F
IVE

 

Richmond, Virginia

K
athleen, where are you?” Clarisa Duncan called up the steps for the third time.

“I'm here, ma'am.” Kathleen O'Toole sauntered down the hallway as though on a Sunday afternoon stroll.

“What took you so long to answer?”

The maid shrugged negligently. “I s'pose I didn't hear you the first two times. I was helping Esther peel potatoes like you told me to.”

Then how did you know I called you thrice?
Clarisa thought, but she didn't voice her petulance. Kathleen would only invent another excuse, further delaying the tasks at hand.

“What did you want me to do?” the maid asked, crossing her arms over her starched white apron.

At least she was paying better attention to her personal appearance. When Clarisa had hired the new maid at the riverfront docks, she looked as though she'd neither bathed nor washed her hair since leaving Dublin. Many recent immigrants applying for service positions didn't aspire to the American custom of daily baths.
But I sat in a tub last week, and I haven't fallen in the mud since.
Kathleen's answer to the cleanliness question had triggered a fit of giggles from Eugenia, but Clarisa hadn't seen the humor. But now that Kathleen maintained a presentable appearance, Clarisa had other goals in mind.

“Please set out the pitcher of lemonade and the decanter of wine on the sideboard.”

“I thought I would bring 'em in once Mr. Duncan gets home. That way the ice won't melt so fast,” Kathleen said, slouching against the newel post.

“I would like you to set them out now and every day at this time. Mr. Duncan prefers a cool drink as soon as he arrives.” Clarisa struggled to contain her exasperation as Kathleen dropped a half curtsey and strolled slowly to the kitchen.

“What's wrong, Mama?”

Her daughter's voice startled the wits out of Clarisa. “Eugenia, please don't listen from the steps. Polite people make their presence known when entering a room.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Coming down the steps, Eugenia wrapped her arms around her mother. “I hadn't meant to. I was waiting for Papa. But it's so entertaining to listen to Kathleen's excuses.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Some days I think you should fire her.”

“More amusing for you than me.” Clarisa guided her daughter into the parlor with an arm around her waist. “Almost every day I also think I should fire her, but domestic help is impossible to find. All the slaves have run off, and many families can't afford to pay freemen enough to keep them. Just last week Mrs. Martin said she sometimes washes her own clothes because her laundress works for three families. Each must wait their turn.” Together they sat on the settee, sweeping their hooped skirts out of the way.

Eugenia's expression indicated that the girl didn't appreciate such difficulties, but her mother knew that the first time she had to iron a ball gown, she would understand.