“I suppose he wouldn’t speak much of him,” the preacher’s wife said. “It must be very painful.”
“Painful?”
“Daniel survived the battle, but wound fever took him and several other Virginia soldiers a week later.”
“I see,” Trudy said. A cold chill passed through her, but her feeling was not limited to her employer’s loss alone. Trudy knew very well that fever could have just as easily taken her own brother.
Mrs. Webb must have recognized it, as well, for she looked at Trudy sympathetically. “I thank the Good Lord that he spared your own brother.”
“Indeed,” Trudy replied. “And I shall be even more grateful when he is released from prison.”
Mrs. Webb patted Trudy’s arm. “I pray for him daily, and all those like him. May God grant them the courage and grace to return to peaceful society.”
“Amen,” Trudy said.
Mrs. Webb then continued with her previous story. “James wrote a letter to your Mr. Carpenter with the terrible news that his brother had passed away. Daniel wanted it that way. I remember him saying he didn’t want his parents to learn about the death of their youngest son by letter.”
Leaving Mr. Carpenter to deliver the dreadful story. “And Matthew?” Trudy then asked. “His other brother? Did he survive?”
Sarah Webb shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him, except that he was a Yankee.”
With that the woman walked away. Trudy resisted the urge to follow after her even if by eyes only. Mrs. Webb had been headed in the direction of Mr. Carpenter’s table. Instead Trudy picked up the nearby water pail and marched outside to the pump.
After collecting a bucketful, she took it to the fire to heat. They’d need plenty of wash water to clean and reuse the dishes once people began arriving. While waiting for it to boil, she again glanced heavenward. The sky that had previously been so threatening was beginning to brighten, but an eerie dampness lingered. Trudy remained at the fire for a few minutes more. Even though it was summer, the chill from her wet clothing had reached all the way into her bones.
Or is it my heart? She wondered. She told herself she must be careful with any display of compassion toward her employer, lest he assume she was still infatuated with him. Still, she couldn’t help but want to comfort a man she knew must be grieving.
And is he grieving for one brother or two? Trudy, along with most of her friends, had known divided loyalties. Why, her sister, Beth, had married a Boston man who’d served in the Federal army while her brother was being held in a Yankee prison. But George will gain his freedom and David and Elizabeth are blissfully happy. What had happened to Mr. Carpenter’s family? Was his brother Daniel a husband? A father? Was Matthew? Had he been killed, as well? Is that why Mr. Carpenter is so against having children of his own?
Trudy desperately wanted to know. Even though she knew it would be better for her to put the man and his troubles far from her mind. He wouldn’t appreciate sympathy or tenderness. Showing such would only further irritate him.
I must concentrate on my tasks at hand. I must be prepared. Reverend and Mrs. Webb had given all they had to help her brother in his time of need, and now their little community was facing malnutrition, disease, maybe even starvation. Trudy was determined to spend every ounce of strength she had helping them and their community in return.
“It is almost one o’clock,” Dr. Mackay said as he glanced at his watch. “Our guests will be here soon.”
Peter looked up from the article he had been crafting about the need for the army to take a more serious role in protecting food shipments, just long enough to see Mrs. Mackay move to the front window. “They are already here,” she said, “and by the looks of things they have formed a line that wraps all the way around the building.”
Peter laid aside his pencil and pushed to his feet. He’d finish the piece tonight. Now was the time to be on alert. If the number of people looking for help was that large, there could be trouble.
He had already spoken to Reverend Webb about making certain the men from the road didn’t try to claim a second helping of cornmeal. The preacher agreed. As softhearted as he was, he realized better than anyone the necessity for stretching what they had to help as many people as possible.
A story from childhood scripture readings suddenly flashed through Peter’s mind, the one about how the Lord fed five thousand with only five loaves of bread and two small fish. Daniel’s favorite story. He quickly shoved the memory away. Reminiscing won’t help now.
“Before we open our doors,” Reverend Webb said, “let’s pray.”
Peter no longer believed in divine intervention, but he wouldn’t disrespect the reverend’s request. In his mind, God had created the world, then sat back and let it run unimpeded. Evil men had and would continue to have their way. The only thing a decent man could do was try to stem the tide of injustice and look after the people caught in its wake. People like Caroline and her child.
Fending off the despair that threatened to wash over him, he moved toward the center of the room, where the rest of the group had already converged, stepping up to the parson and his wife. Mrs. Webb shifted her position at the last second to make more room in the circle. Inadvertently she placed Peter between herself and Miss Martin. He saw the flush come over the young woman’s face when the reverend then requested that they all join hands.
What words the preacher actually prayed Peter couldn’t say. He was much too conscious of the slenderness and softness of Miss Martin’s fingers, testaments again of her sheltered life. She had no idea what heartbreak was waiting for her outside.
She will soon find out. Not that he wished to deliberately hurt her, but someone needed to educate her on the realities of the world today. Peace had been declared and the reconstruction of the Union had begun, but the people outside had been impoverished by their own country. Of the Confederate veterans who had managed to return, few were able-bodied. Arriving home, they found their lands in ruins, and no longer their own, for they had been confiscated by the Federal government.
The only thing taking root around here is the seed of resentment. What will they do if they are given the opportunity to avenge themselves? An angry man may be all too willing to lash out at anyone he can find—even someone as harmless and well-intentioned as Miss Martin.
Of course, not every man out there was a danger or a threat. Many were well-intentioned themselves, simply seeking a way to get on with their lives, but lacking the resources to move forward. The slaves were free, but the freedmen Peter had talked to had been told by Federal authorities to remain on the plantations, let their masters feed and clothe them until the end of this year. What kind of freedom is that? Their masters have no food to give them. The slaves had been promised forty acres and a mule of their own. Taking their chances, many were migrating north, seeking work in any form, desperate to be reunited with loved ones.
Peter couldn’t help but then think of the ordinary family farms, and the people on them who had simply disappeared. Who will gain their land? In time enormous profit will be made from these derelict farms, but it isn’t going to be claimed by the ones who had once labored on them.
The world was a cheap mess. Someone was going to profit, of that Peter was certain. Someone always did.
His lame leg was aching. It always bothered him when the weather was damp or he had stood on it for too long. He would have to remember to use his cane. Presently, though, he couldn’t remember where he had left it. He shifted his weight just as the reverend offered prayers for the regional garrison