No Greater Glory Read online

  Without any additional words, he moved away to attend to his first patient.

  Emaline backed into the farthest corner, avoiding any more interaction with him. She simply observed him. He spoke to the soldiers who carried in the wounded, and to his anxious patients, and sometimes he spoke to no one except himself. Eventually, his soothing words lulled her, drawn to his crooning and gentleness like the dying drawn to heaven. He swiftly treated each patient, surveyed every wound, and isolated the injuries by severity.

  Despite his disheveled appearance and odd manner, the stout little man worked with a fierce and efficient devotion, and other than not boiling his instruments before each use, she saw no fault. And for an unsettling moment, Emaline wanted to approach him and simply whisper, “Well done”.

  Instead, she slipped from the room and climbed the main stairs. She isolated herself away from the makeshift infirmary until the next evening when she vacated her haven by way of the servant’s stairway at the back of the house. She sat at the table in the center of the winter kitchen and ate her meal in silence. Twenty minutes later, Euley ambled in by way of the same stairs.

  The old woman held a bundle of clothes between her calloused hands. “Me ’n’ Israel…well, he’s done asked me to marry him, and I agreed.”

  Emaline lowered her fork to the dinner plate, a smile winging her lips. “Goodness gracious, it’s about time, don’t you think? After all, you share two children She looked at the belongings clutched in Euley’s arms and her cheerfulness vanished. “But…surely, you aren’t leaving me too?”

  “No, we ain’t leavin’. But if it’s all right wif you, I’s wantin’ to move out to the quarter to be wif Israel at night.”

  “The quarter?” Was she daft? Why would she choose a servant’s cabin over the comforting appointments of her upstairs room? “Good heavens, Euley, winter’s coming. And you have your own place on the third floor. I insist that Israel move up here to live.”

  “Israel don’t want to live in da main house, Miz Emaline.”

  “I wish he’d not drag you down there. If I go ask him myself, do you think it’ll make a difference?” She stood and started toward the back door, but Euley’s words stopped her.

  “Please don’t. I want to go live out dere wif him.”

  Their gazes met.

  “But, what will I do without you here?”

  “I’ll only be dere at night, and den over here to help durin’ da day. And da colonel, he won’t let his soldiers hurt you none.”

  The dark-haired man’s image flooded once more through her misery, making her next breath harder to intake. Instead, Emaline huffed—the riposte a hollow echo in the room. Her heart wrenched against this newest turn of events—one more loss, one more reason to hate him.

  She slumped back into the chair and stared at Euley until the old woman lowered her head, her chin dropping to her chest. Seconds ticked by.

  Finally, Emaline closed her eyes, her heartbeat rapid as she drew in a deep, strengthening breath. She knew selfishness when she saw it, and she saw it in herself right now. Euley was so much more than a servant; she was her closest female friend and a true confidante. She deserved happiness. Despite all the madness around them and more so now that her own life seemed so lost, Emaline understood that all people needed love.

  She slipped down in the chair and looked at Euley’s downcast head.

  Her chest tightened around her breath. “Please look at me,” she whispered. The turbaned head lifted. Ebony eyes met hers. “I’m so sorry for denying you. Please forgive me. I do understand. Truly. And it’s fine. You go out to Israel and make a loving home for him.” Euley nodded, offering her a hesitant smile. Emaline returned one. “But you tell him I said he must take good care of you.”

  The woman’s face brightened. “Take care o’ me?” Her comforting chuckle once more filled the room. “More like I’ll be takin’ care of him, and Moses and ol’ Tacker too!”

  “Well, we’re all blessed to have you care for us,” Emaline said, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. “I remember the many times you’ve helped me over the years with the house or the cooking. Even with my hair before I swept off to some silly soiree in Falmouth.” She raised her hands, her palms held upward as a forlorn chuckle fell from her own mouth. “These used to be the softest in Virginia, or at least that’s what Benjamin used to say. Remember?” A fire burned low in the hearth to offer warmth, yet she felt chilled to the bone.

  “You don’t need no fancy hands to be important to us, Miz Emaline.”

  Emaline looked up and smiled. “Thank you, dear. I’ve always treasured your friendship. Now go on out to Israel and have a good evening. I’ll see you again in the morning.”

  Euley nodded. And then, without another word, Emaline watched her last domestic house servant, from her original staff of ten, slip outside. More than the winds of November swirled in upon Euley’s departure. Emaline stared at the closed door. She sat all alone in a broken home that housed the enemy.

  Loneliness engulfed her.

  She lowered her head to the table, but the muffled moans from the infirmary nipped at her misery. Emaline rose. Leaden feet carried her to the swinging door that separated her from the hellish disorder of her world. She pushed open the divider and the doctor’s comforting chatter somehow found its way across her pain to embrace her. Hour after endless hour, the dedicated surgeon maintained his vigil, aiding where he could, in a bloody world gone mad.

  Despair tightened her throat and brought up the bitter bite of contrition.

  Nightmares taunted Emaline. In her dreams, Benjamin scorned her from all directions, ridiculing her and her inability to keep together the only thing that mattered: Shapinsay. She cried out, begging him to stop, to remove the unwanted burdens he had placed upon her. But he granted no respite. Instead, he blamed her for her inadequacies as a woman, his torment unceasing. From the tangle of bedding, he lifted her, swirling her around and around, until she looked down upon the empty shell of a widow lying pitiful, old and all alone in bed. Emaline clawed her way through the blackness until the horror of her dreams withdrew with a new dawning.

  At noon, she forced herself to dress, and with a heavy heart she once-again descended into hell. She preferred anything to the ordeal that had torn at her emotions all night. Her fingers gripped the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and she peered through the parlor doorway in search of the doctor. He was nowhere in sight. Emaline edged around the opening and stepped into the room. Icy fingers touched her hand and she jerked, staring down at a young soldier on a cot beside the wall.

  He struggled to prop himself up on his elbow. “I’m sorry to startle you, ma’am, b-but would you give this to Doc. He’ll make sure it gets to my wife.” Shaking fingers held out a small mahogany-cased daguerreotype.

  “I don’t know where he is right now,” she whispered, linking her hands together in a firm clasp.

  “Please, ma’am.” His hand shook as pale fingers gripped the piece. “If you’ll just take it, then I know he’ll get it.”

  Speaking to the wounded soldier brought everything back into perspective. Yet, the foolishness of standing here quivering in the parlor like a frightened doe sickened Emaline. She never thought herself a wretched person, yet here she stood, displaying weakness in all its disgusting forms to this poor, unfortunate soul. The pleading in his eyes weighed heavy across her heart, and she swallowed. She could do this. Compassion was never wrong.

  Emaline reached down and took the small case from his hand, then flipped back the tiny hook latch on its side to open it. Maroon velvet covered the left side of the piece. A dainty gold border edged the left and on the right, framed under glass, the faded likeness of a young woman holding an infant stared back at her.

  Emaline’s tension dissolved. She looked up and scanned the sea of wounded men. How many other women and children in the Yankee kingdom awaited their beloved’s return? Were they so different from her? Didn’t she wait daily for news from her b
rother? With each passing moment, it became harder for her to indiscriminately hate.

  She smiled and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Private James Anders, ma’am, from Mariah Hill.” Pride for his hometown filled his trembling voice. “In Spencer County, Ohio, ma’am. And that there’s Rebecca. My wife. She’s holding my baby girl, Mary Margaret.” Despite the bandage covering half his head, the injured man still managed a weak, wobbly smile.

  “They’re lovely, Mr. Anders. But you should keep this. You’ll want it when you’re better.”

  “Doc says it don’t look good for me. So in case I don’t…well, you know. Will you—”

  “Yes,” she whispered, slipping the case inside her pocket. She patted the spot for good measure. The young soldier nodded and then lay back upon the cot in obvious relief.

  Emaline resumed her search for Doctor Evans and found him in the downstairs library. The surgeon straightened as she approached, his usual broad smile flooding his face. “Well, the little lady returns! I’d wondered why you left, but nonetheless, I’m glad you’re back. Come along now,” he said, sweeping past her. “I need your assistance with a young corporal in the other room. His wound’s been oozin’ for days, and I’d like you to take a look.” Emaline stood her ground and just stared at the man shuffling around a maze of cots. “The colonel says more wounded will be arriving soon…” He paused when he realized she wasn’t following. Turning to face her, he raised his hands to his broad hips. “Well, why’re you still standing over there, woman? Come along now and tell me what you think about this ooze?”

  Emaline inhaled. Once. Twice. And then, with a resolute heart, she did the one thing she vowed she’d never do — she stepped forward to help.

  “I’ve decided to talk to the doctor about utilizing your healing remedy,” Emaline said to Euley three nights later. The whir of the maple spinning wheel slowed as she relaxed her foot on the treadle. Her fingers pinched the woolen fibers together in her hand and then married them onto the leader yarn already spun into a strand on the bobbin. Her gaze lifted, connecting with the old woman’s. “I believe it will help ease some of their suffering.”

  “You sure you want to keep helpin’ dese Yankees? I mean, dey’s tearing apart yo’ home.” Euley wrapped a long strand of yarn around one polished end of a hickory stick.

  “I’m not helping Yankees. I’m simply lending aid to help fathers return to their children, sons to their mothers, and husbands to wives.” Rationalizing her thought of assisting the doctor somehow made her decision to share the woman’s curative secret a bit easier to swallow.

  Emaline resumed her peddling, keeping the tension firm on the clockwise spin of the bobbin. She concentrated on the cream-colored roving in her hands and guided the strands into a proper twist, her fingertips softening beneath the lanolin-infused wool. “I can’t watch people die, not knowing what I know. I don’t care who they are. You understand that, don’t you? I mean, if we shared your remedy, perhaps something good could come out of this tragedy.”

  “I know, Miz Emaline,” Euley said, plunging the yarn bundle into the bucket of hot water resting beside her on the hearth. “And I agree with you, but dis ain’t no secret. We’s been boilin’ things down here for years.” She swirled the stick several times in the water, allowing the liquid to absorb and strengthen the strands. “You think dere doctor will even let you?”

  “I hope so. I’ll mention it to him first thing tomorrow.” The churring whisper of the spinning wheel blended with the muted resonance of a bugle blowing somewhere in the Yankee encampment. Musical orders. “The doctor calls this tune ‘Taps’,” Emaline said, changing the subject as she stretched the fibers in her hand to keep the skein thin. “Following a battle this past July over near Harrison’s landing, some Yankee bugler rewrote an obscure military song to create this one.” The brass leads guiding her yarn onto the bobbin in front of her glinted in the fire’s glow and resembled a handful of twinkling fireflies. “The doctor said the colonel liked the tune so much he now has his bugler play it for his troops. It’s supposed to tell them to stop drinking for the night, or some such nonsense.” Doc had shared the lyrics with Emaline several days ago, and by now, she’d memorized every word.

  Impulsively, she began to croon, the wooka-wooka of her treadle and the whirl of the wheel, embracing her soft voice:

  “Day is done.

  Gone the sun.

  From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky.

  All is well.

  Safely rest.

  God is nigh.”

  Unbidden, the colonel’s handsome image flooded Emaline’s mind and she stopped singing. Leaning forward, she peddled faster in an attempt to push away the man’s unwanted features. The warmth in the room seemed to impinge upon her, and she swept a dark-blue sleeve across her forehead to remove the perspiration without losing any treadle momentum.

  From the corner of her eye, she watched Euley pull the yarn mass from the hot water and place it on the blanket to dry beside the countless other bundles they had created tonight. A groan slipped from her servant’s mouth and drew Emaline’s concern. They would stop for the night.

  Lessening the pressure of her foot, she slowed the wheel and leaned back.

  After nearly two hours, the repetitious work of making yarn for winter blankets had also laid a sheen across Euley’s brow. Decision made, Emaline broke the main strand from the pile of lock wool in her lap. She slowly treadled to allow the last of the soft, curly fibers to slip through her fingers, and then through the orifice on her spinner. Just as the bobbin stopped twirling, the colonel’s bugler finished his mournful tune.

  “It’s getting late.” Emaline dropped the mass of locks into the basketful of cleaned and carded wool. The fibers inside the wicker resembled more a puffy cloud than fleece. “We’ll want to get an early start so we can talk to the doctor. Let’s leave everything here and just finish up sometime tomorrow. Come on, I’ll walk you out to your cabin.”

  “I’ll be fine, Miz Emaline. I’m just a bit stiff, that’s all.” Euley stood and stretched her thin frame, working out the kinks in her back. “Dey ignore me anyways.” She stepped over the bundles of new yarn and headed toward the back door, opening it. A gust of chilly November wind blustered in, forcing the fire into a lively dance and sending shadows up all four walls.

  “Rest well, dear. And thank you for your hard work today. I’ll see you again tomorrow, bright and early.”

  The servant nodded and slipped from sight, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Emaline exhaled in a slow rush. Leaning back against the chair, she stared into the flickering fire. Today was her birthday, and she’d almost forgotten. “Well, I’m thirty-four now,” she whispered to the gamboling flames. “Three years ago, I’d been swathed in widow’s weeds.”

  Emaline pushed against her knees and stood, stretching out her cramped muscles. The corset pinched under her left breast. She ran her hands down her dress, ruffling her work crinoline into place. After banking the fire, she made her way around the room and blew out the candles, then slowly climbed the servants’ stairs. The colonel’s melancholy tune moved up each step with her.

  The following morning, Emaline raked her hair into black netting and made sure the part in the center was straight before she affixed the ruffled, white silk day cap into place. Closing the bedroom door behind her, she hurried down the hall. Euley would be arriving soon so she mustn’t dawdle. At the top landing, Emaline swept her fingers over her head one last time to check for loose hair.

  Her chest tightened the moment her hand gripped the polished banister. Like a black hole, sorrow opened up to swallow her. Emaline struggled to catch her breath. Another alarming episode. Was there no end to her despair? She leaned forward, her fingers tightening around the smooth wood. Short, static gasps escaped between parted lips. Rapid and frantic, they filled the top landing. Some unknown fear squeezed tight and Emaline helplessly waited for the morass to lift. The smell of
Euley’s lemon oil met her nostrils. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  She took one comforting inhalation after another until the blackness slowly withdrew. Emaline peered into the passageway below. Several soldiers moved across the hall, entering sickrooms on either side to begin another day. No one appeared to have noticed her at the top of the stairs.

  Or if they did, they paid her no mind.

  She straightened and raised her chin. Sweeping her hands down the front of her dress, she composed herself. First one step, then the other, she descended, focusing on each footfall upon the wide, wooden risers. Her palm slid along the solid oak, and by the time she reached the bottom landing, the railing had become tacky beneath her grip. Emaline lifted her hand away, and swept the front of her red-and-black plaid to straighten the folds of her day dress. A quick hop settled her hoops into place, before she shook her arms to fluff her undersleeves. The white linen draped into a graceful swell around her wrists.

  Emaline affixed a smile, ready now to face the doctor.

  She stared at the front door, and the longer she waited, the farther her heart inched into her throat. The large, forged-brass handle no longer gleamed. Her lips tightened. Like the bottom part of the banister, it too had dulled beneath the muck of a thousand Yankee hands.

  Her gaze dropped to the once-elegant floor Euley had spent a lifetime on hands and knees polishing. Gouges scored the wood in a dozen places and mirrored the deep gashes that marred Emaline’s soul.

  Everywhere her eyes rested, she saw transformation. Mud and streaks of blood caked the majestic pilasters that soared up both side entrances into the sitting and dining rooms. A glaring rip across a section of swan motifs on the Walter Crane wallpaper broke her heart. For a split second, Emaline remembered the delightful week the gifted artisan had spent with them, applying pristine flecks of red wool to his exquisite masterpiece.