Widow of Gettysburg (22 page)

He chewed another piece of hardtack, and hoped he wouldn’t break a tooth on it. Roswell King Jr. was Pierce Butler’s overseer on the Georgia plantations. Butler prized him for his efficiency.

But according to Fanny Kemble in her
Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation
, he did more than manage the property. He personally populated the estate with new slaves.

Harrison reached into the bottom of his haversack and drew out the neglected journal, cringing at the curled corners and water stain from where moisture had seeped into the bag from the muddy ground. Though the moon shone brightly, it was not enough light to read a book, so he lit another candle and buried the end of it in the ground beside him until it stood steady on its own.

Hungry for clues, he began flipping through the book. As was the style, Kemble did not always print full names in her accounts, using only initials instead. But from the context, it was clear enough that “Mr. K—” or “Mr. R— K—” referred to Mr. Roswell King, Jr. “Old Mr. K—” referred to his father.

References to the son were abundant. Betty, the wife of headman Frank, had at least one son by King, with “straight features and diluted color.” Another young man who bore a striking resemblance to King was born of a Negress named Minda.

A little more than halfway through the journal, Harrison had bracketed a particularly chilling account:

Harrison closed the book. He had never met Roswell King Jr., but he assumed that Lt. Holmes had. They shared a hometown, after all, and Holmes’s father was the plantation physician. Would not Holmes have accompanied his father on his calls?

Holmes had said Liberty bore King’s resemblance. So did Bella. Was he saying they were
both
King’s illegitimate daughters? Were they half-sisters? Bella had called Liberty her employer, but had not mentioned any family relationship between them.
But would she?

Bella’s insistence on getting back to Liberty during the fighting replayed in his mind. Strange, that she had said nothing about her own home. Her only desire was to get here. To Liberty. And even after she had seen it was full of Rebel soldiers, she had come back. To help Liberty.

Harrison chewed the end of his pencil before jotting some notes in his pad. They had to be related, even if Bella wanted to keep that hidden. Besides, even if only one of them were related to King, it would be remarkable. This could be the story he had been looking for. A sequel to the Weeping Time story, but penned under his real name.

Imagine! A former slave, the daughter of the Butler plantation overseer, now helping Rebel wounded at the battle of Gettysburg. And her husband had watched the burning of Darien! He may have even helped torch it. How poetic!

But so far, all was conjecture. He needed proof—facts and testimony—or his story would be mere speculation, a gossip column. The last thing he wanted. He needed Bella and Liberty to be straightforward with him. He had to win their confidence.

“Exactly who is Bella Jamison?” he said aloud to no one but the
crickets. “Who is Liberty Holloway?”

“Now that, young man, is a very good question!”

Harrison jumped to his feet. He had been so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed the inky outline of another person standing beside him. He bent and picked up his candle so he could see her face.

“I’m sorry to startle you. I’m Amelia Sanger, Liberty’s mother.”

Harrison narrowed his eyes. “I was told she was an orphan.”

“Oh, that. Technically, yes. I’m her mother-in-law. But I might as well be her mother. We’re very close.”

His face knotted in confusion. “I thought she was a widow.”

“Fine! My son—her husband—was killed two years ago! But you probably already knew that too, Mr.—”

“Harrison Caldwell,
Philadelphia Inquirer
.”

“Oh, a reporter! Well keep digging, newsman. There’s a story here.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded. “How does this strike you: ‘Union Widow Shamelessly Supports Late Husband’s Killers.’” She jiggled her eyebrows at him. “Well? Have you seen her with these Rebel hooligans?”

“Some. Have you?”

“I’ve seen plenty. From right up there.” She nodded toward a window on the second floor of the farmhouse.

“Ah. So you’ve locked yourself in your bedroom ever since they arrived?”

“Liberty’s bedroom. They took mine as an operating room first thing. Imagine!”

“So let me make sure I’ve got the facts straight. You’ve been sleeping in Miss Holloway’s bed while she has been out here, feeding and watering the men, wetting their bandages, assisting with amputations.”

Amelia glowered. “And why shouldn’t I shut myself away? If your own mother were here, wouldn’t you rather she stayed out of it as well as she could?”

“Quite.” He raked a hand through his hair. “So, what brings you out of your sanctuary this fine evening?”

“Mind your own beeswax.”

His gaze dropped to the chamber pot she held in her hands. “I do beg your pardon.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me.” She began to saunter away, but turned back. “You keep digging, newsman, and you’ll find a story surrounding Liberty Holloway, that much is certain!”

He had a feeling she was right.

L
iberty’s stomach revolted at the smell of flesh spoiling in the broiling sun. The air was thick with it, and it was terrible for the morale of the patients.

“Dr. Stephens.” Liberty approached the doctor as he was probing for a bullet in someone’s shoulder. His movements were slow, lethargic. Surely he needed sleep. “I really must insist we do something about that pile of limbs outside the summer kitchen. Do you really plan to let them stay there forever? When the wind blows from that direction, the smell alone is enough to make the men sick.”

He looked up at her, eyes red and glazed. “Do sssomethin’ yerself.”

Her brows knitted together. “Are you quite well?”

The doctor wagged his head, wincing as if the movement pained him. “I’ve gotta sssplittin’ headache.” He wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “Ssplittin’. And close to a thousand patienz to see. So go fix yer
own problems. Oh see there, Collins is taking careofit. Now lemme be.”

Astonishment filled Liberty as she watched a one-armed patient pulling a wheelbarrow backwards toward the pile.
Does he mean to move those limbs himself? Why, he will meet his own arm again!

Liberty hurried over to him at once. “Mr. Collins, what on earth can you be doing?”

“You’re right, Miss Holloway. This pile must be taken care of. And since my arm is in there somewhere, I figured I would help put it away. Didn’t your mother teach you to put away your own things when you were done with them?”

He smiled, and Libbie’s eyes widened. “Are you quite sure you want to do this?”

“Quite sure.”

“At least let me tie a handkerchief around your face.” But she had no more handkerchiefs. “Excuse me a moment.” She went to the other side of the summer kitchen, lifted her skirt and tore a wide section of fabric from her red petticoat. Tearing that in half, she had two cloths that would serve the purpose. Her conscience needled her as she returned to Collins with the handkerchiefs.

“Bend down a little, please, and I’ll tie this on you. There.” She peered up at him. “Do you—do you want me to help?”

“No ma’am.” His voice was muffled behind the red triangle covering his nose and mouth. “At least, not with handling the limbs. I can use a rake to get them into the wheelbarrow, but I don’t believe I can manage to steer it with one arm once it’s loaded. You know, to the burying place. I’ll need your help then. I know it’s an awful lot to ask of a lady.”

She did not feel like a lady in the least. She hadn’t bathed properly in days and had only changed her dress once. Her hair was unkempt, the curls falling out of her pins. And now her only petticoat had a large hole torn out of it.

“Would you call me Romeo if I offered to do that for you?” Isaac sidled up to Liberty and took her hand.

Liberty slipped out of his grip. “I don’t promise you that, but I would be so grateful for any help you can give. We need to bury this pile as soon as possible.”

Isaac wrinkled his nose, and Liberty held out the square of fabric she’d torn from her petticoat. “Put this on. It will keep the flies out of your mouth and nose while you work.”

“This is what we have Negroes for, down south. Where is that colored woman I saw yesterday? She looked plenty strong enough for the task.”

Liberty’s face flooded with heat. “I’m not asking her to do this, Isaac. I’m asking you. Please.”

The sulky look on his face reminded Liberty of a small child after being told he could not pass off his chores to someone else.

“My arm still hurts.”

“My arm’s still gone.” Mr. Collins glared at Isaac.

“Yes.” Impatience threaded Liberty’s tone. “If Sergeant Collins is helping, you should be able to as well.” Isaac’s injury had not been so severe that he could not lend a hand. In fact, soon he should be able to rejoin his regiment.

“Fine, Sugar. If it makes you happy.”

“If you don’t help, I’ll have to. So consider it a personal favor to me.”

“Anything for you. After all, you are my girl, aren’t you?”

Liberty cleared her throat. The charm of this little game was wearing quite thin. “Thank you. I do appreciate it. There are rakes and shovels in the barn. I can show you where to bury them.”

Isaac followed her to a spot a distance from the house, in the apple orchard.

“This should be fine, wouldn’t you say?” she asked him. Fine had become such a relevant term these days.

“I’ll tell you what isn’t fine, Sugar. Taking sides against your man isn’t fine.” His eyes glowed. “You shamed me back there. Don’t do it again.”

Liberty propped a fist on her hip. “I’m sorry if you felt embarrassed. But you must realize this little make-believe courtship you’ve drummed up isn’t going anywhere. As soon as the battle is over, which has got to be soon, you’ll be on your way, and I will stay here and do my best to pick up the pieces from this wreckage.”

“Oh, I’m not leaving you, Sugar.”

“Pardon me?”

“We were meant to be together, you and me. I’m staying, for good. I love you.”

Libbie laughed, but she was the furthest thing from happy. “You don’t even know me! You certainly don’t love me.”

“Then why in tarnation did I just agree to bury a bunch of dead arms and legs?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Sorry, not a good enough reason for me.” A grin slithered over his face. “You owe me. That’s why I’m doing it. You owe me now.”

“I owe you nothing.” Anger sharpened her voice. “If anyone owes anyone here, it’s you and your army who owe me. Did you know I was married once? Lost my husband in the Battle of Bull Run. The Confederates took my husband, and now my home.”

He gripped her wrist and twisted. “You lost your husband, did you? How lonely for you. Let me pay you back.” He pulled her close and clutched her squirming body against his. With one hand against her back and the other pressing against the back of her head, he kissed her, deeply, until she bit his lip and stomped on his foot as hard as she could. He released her with a yelp.

“You stay away from me, Isaac. The Union will win this battle, and then you’ll leave in disgrace. The sooner the better! I’m not your girl!” Face burning, she ran back to the farmhouse.

“Oh yes you are! I like a little spice with my Sugar!” he called after her, laughing.

But Liberty did not turn around. She was done playing this little game.
I’m sorry I ever started!