The Yankee Widow Read online

  A richly layered saga is set against the backdrop of the Civil War

  In The Yankee Widow, gifted storyteller Linda Lael Miller explores the complexities and heartbreak that families experienced as men took up arms to preserve the nation and defend their way of life.

  Told in a smart, assured and compelling voice, this is the story of Caroline, the young wife and childhood sweetheart of Jacob, who together live on a farm raising their daughter, Rachel, just outside of Gettysburg. When Jacob joins the Northern army to do his duty and help save the Union, no one anticipates he will not return. Caroline gets news that he is wounded and has been taken to Washington, DC, with his regiment, and so she must find her way there and navigate the thousands of other wounded soldiers to find him.

  Thus begins this novel that focuses on the strong women and men of both sides and both races who sacrificed so much and loved so well during this critical juncture in American history.

  PRAISE FOR THE YANKEE WIDOW

  “Marvelously depicted and every view is represented as Union and Confederate troops converge... as love takes root in blood-soaked ground.”

  —Library Journal, Editor’s Pick

  MORE PRAISE FOR LINDA LAEL MILLER

  “Miller tugs at the heartstrings as few authors can.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Miller fills her stories with rich settings and characters so well-rounded, they cause a reader to feel as if they could be your best friend.”

  —BookPage

  “Memorable characters are the hallmark of Miller’s novels. Her down-home style of writing and delightful, heart-felt plots guarantee an enjoyable read.”

  —Portland Book Review

  “Linda Lael Miller’s novels have warmed the hearts of millions of readers the world over!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Miller has created unforgettable characters and woven a many-faceted yet coherent and lovingly told tale.”

  —Booklist

  Linda Lael Miller is a #1 New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than one hundred historical and contemporary novels. Long a passionate Civil War buff, Linda has studied the era avidly for nearly thirty years. She has read literally hundreds of books on the subject, explored numerous battlegrounds and made many visits to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where she has witnessed reenactments of the legendary clash between North and South. Linda explores that turbulent time in The Yankee Widow.

  www.LindaLaelMiller.com

  Also by Linda Lael Miller

  A Snow Country Christmas

  Part of the Bargain

  Here and Then

  Forever a Hero

  The Heart of a Cowboy

  Arizona Heat

  Christmas in Mustang Creek

  The 24 Days of Christmas

  Always a Cowboy

  Arizona Wild

  Once a Rancher

  The Cowboy Way

  Montana Creeds: Tyler

  Montana Creeds: Dylan

  Sierra’s Homecoming

  Montana Creeds: Logan

  Used-to-Be Lovers

  The Marriage Season

  Big Sky Country

  McKettricks of Texas: Austin

  The Marriage Charm

  McKettricks of Texas: Garrett

  Snowflakes on the Sea

  Mixed Messages

  McKettricks of Texas: Tate

  Deadly Deceptions

  Deadly Gamble

  The Marriage Pact

  Linda Lael Miller

  The Yankee Widow

  In loving memory of Mary Ann Bleecker Readman, my cousin, my conscience and my cherished friend. I miss you every moment of every day.

  Godspeed, Bleeck. I’ll see you down the trail a ways.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from The Flight Girls by Noelle Salazar

  1

  Chancellorsville, Virginia

  May 3, 1863

  Jacob

  The first minié ball ripped into Corporal Jacob Hammond’s left hand, the second, his right knee, each strike leaving a ragged gash in its wake; another slashed through his right thigh an instant later, and then he lost count.

  A coppery crimson mist rained down on Jacob as he bent double, then plunged, with what felt like a strange, protracted grace, toward the broken ground. On the way down, he noted the bent and broken grass, shimmering with fresh blood, the deep gouges left by cannon balls and boot heels and the lunging hooves of panicked horses.

  A peculiar clarity overtook Jacob in those moments between life as he’d always known it and another way of being, already inevitable. The boundaries of his mind seemed to expand beyond skull and skin, rushing outward at a dizzying speed, hurtling in all directions, rising past the treetops, past the sky, past the far borders of the cosmos itself.

  For an instant, he understood everything, every mystery, every false thing, every truth.

  He felt no emotion, no joy or sorrow.

  There was peace, though, and the sweet promise of oblivion.

  Then, with a wrench so swift and so violent that it sickened his very soul, Jacob was back inside himself, a prisoner behind fractured bars of bone. The flash of extraordinary knowledge was gone, a fact that saddened Jacob more deeply than the likelihood of death, but some small portion of the experience remained, an ability to think without obstruction, to see his past as vividly as his present, to envision all that was around him, as if from a great height.

  Blessedly, there was no pain, though he knew that would surely come, provided he remained alive long enough to receive it.

  Something resembling bitter amusement overtook Jacob then; he realized that, unaccountably, he hadn’t expected to be struck down on this savage battlefield or any other. Never mind the unspeakable carnage he’d witnessed since his enlistment in Mr. Lincoln’s grand army; with the hubris of youth, he had believed himself invincible.

  He had assumed that the men in blue fought on the side of righteousness, committed to the task of mending a sundered nation, restoring it to its former whole. For all its faults, the United States of America was the most promising nation ever to arise from the old order of kings and despots; even now, Jacob was convinced that, whatever the cost, it must not be allowed to fail.

  He had been willing to pay that price, was willing still.

  Why then was he shocked, nay affronted, to find that the bill had come due, in full, and that his own blood and breath, his very substance, was the currency required?

  Beca
use, he thought, shame washing over him, he had been willing to die only in theory. Out of vanity or ignorance or pure naivety, he had somehow, without being aware of it, declared himself exempt.

  Well, there it was. Jacob Hammond, husband of Caroline, father of Rachel, son and grandson and great-grandson of sturdy, high-minded folk, present owner of a modest but fertile farm a few miles south of the small but industrious township of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, was no more vital to the noble pursuit of lasting justice for all than any other man was. In any larger scheme, neither his life nor his death would truly matter.

  He knew his wounds were grievous, that a quick death was the most merciful fate he could hope for, and still he wanted so much to live, to return to his beloved wife, to his child, to the modest but thriving farm that shone in his memory, fairer than heaven itself.

  The sacrifice was terrible, unspeakably so.

  Was it worthwhile?

  Jacob pondered that question, decided that, for him, it was.

  The country had splintered, bone and blood, perhaps never to be mended. It was far from the ideal set forth by those bold intellects who had gathered in Philadelphia back in ’76, in a blaze of fractious brilliance.

  Somehow, in the sweltering heat of a Pennsylvania summer, and yet no doubt cooler than their collective temperaments—out of dissent, out of greed and ill humor and stubbornness and all manner of other mortal failings—these remarkable men had forged a philosophy, a glorious vision of what a nation, a people, could become.

  To Jacob, bleeding into the ground, in the midst of an endless war, that goal seemed more distant than ever, hopeless, even impossible.

  And still, had he been able, he would have fought on, died not just once but a thousand times, not for the country as it was, but for the noble, sacred objective upon which it had been founded—liberty and justice for all.

  Whatever the cost, the Union must hold together.

  So much hung in the balance, so very much. Not only the hope and valor of those who had gone before, but the freedom, perhaps the very existence, of those yet to be born.

  In solidarity, the United States could be a force for good in a hungry, desperate world. Torn asunder, it would be ineffectual, two bickering factions, bound to divide into still smaller and weaker fragments over time, too busy posturing and rattling sabers to meet the demands of a fragile future or to stand in the way of new tyrannies, certain to arise.

  We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal...

  That belief, inspiring as it was, had chafed the consciences of thinking people since it flowed from the nib of Thomas Jefferson’s pen, as well it should have.

  Like many of his contemporaries, the great man himself had kept slaves.

  The inherent contradiction could not have escaped a mind as luminous as Jefferson’s, nor could the subtle difference in phrasing as he wrote those momentous words. He had not written that some men were created equal, but that all men were.

  Strenuous opposition to the indefensible institution of slavery had been raised, of course, but in the end, expediency prevailed. Representatives of the Southern colonies, with their vast fields of cotton and other valuable crops, would face certain ruin without their millions of unpaid laborers. They had refused to join in the rebellion against Great Britain if slavery was outlawed.

  Since the effort would surely fail without them, the concession had been made.

  But what was the value of freedom if it remained the province of white men while excluding all others?

  Alas, the question was too big for a man in the process of dying, alone and far from home.

  There was nothing to be done, save letting go. In the deepest recesses of his heart, in that calm place beyond fear and pain and fury, Jacob prayed that the will of God be done, in this matter of countries and wars.

  Then, with that petition made, he raised another, more selfish one. Watch over my beloved wife, our little daughter, and Enoch, our trusted friend. Keep them all safe and well.

  The request was simple, one of millions like it, no doubt, rising to the ears of the Creator on wings of desperation and sorrow, and there was no Road-to-Damascus moment for Jacob, just the ground-shaking roar of battle all around. But even in the midst of thundering cannon, the sharp reports of carbines and the fiery blast of muskets, the clanking of swords and the shrill shrieks of men and horses, he found a certain consolation.

  A whisper of hope. Perhaps he’d been heard.

  He began to drift then, back and forth between darkness and light, fear and oblivion. When he surfaced, the pain was waiting, like a specter hovering over him, ready to descend, settle upon him, crush him beneath its weight.

  Consequently, Jacob again took refuge deep inside, where it could not yet reach.

  Hours passed, perhaps days; he had no way of knowing.

  Eventually, because life is persistent even in the face of hopelessness and unrelenting agony, the hiding place within became less accessible. During those intervals, pain played with him, like a cat with a mouse. Smoke burned his eyes, which he couldn’t close; it climbed, stinging, into his nostrils, chafed his throat raw. He was thirsty, so thirsty. He felt as dry as last year’s corn husks, imagining his life’s blood seeping, however slowly, into the ravaged earth.

  In order to bear his suffering, Jacob thought about home, conjured up vivid images of Caroline, quietly pretty, more prone to laughter than to tears, courageous as any man he’d ever known. She loved him, he knew that, and his heart rested safely with her. She had always accepted his attentions in the marriage bed with good-humored acquiescence, though perhaps not with a passion to equal his own, and while he told himself this was the way of a good woman, he sometimes wondered if, to Caroline, lovemaking was simply another wifely chore. Yet another duty to perform, after a day of washing and ironing, cooking and sewing, tending the vegetable garden behind the kitchen house and picking apples and pears, apricots and peaches in the orchards when the fruit ripened.

  Jacob was not the sort of husband who took his wife’s efforts for granted. Whenever possible, he had lent her a willing hand, little concerned with what constituted “women’s work”; he hadn’t been above changing a diaper, gathering eggs or hanging out the wash.

  No, work was work, whether it fell to a man or a woman to do it. As a farmer, though, he’d had fields to plow and harvest, livestock to tend, tools and wagons to maintain, and even with Enoch’s help, getting all that done took every scrap of daylight and, often, part of the night.

  Oh, but Caroline. Caroline.

  She was a pure wonder to Jacob. Her price, if one could’ve been set, was indeed far above rubies; she might have been the model for the woman described in the thirty-first chapter of Proverbs. She was certainly virtuous, and she looked “well to the ways of her household, and ate not of the bread of idleness.” Moreover, she stretched “out her hand to the poor” and reached “out forth her hands to the needy.”

  Caroline not only met the many demands of marriage and motherhood, she was an active member of the local Ladies’ Aid Society. These women were among her closest friends, all of them determined to serve the Union cause and to sustain and encourage the soldiers who fought for it.

  She had written to him about how they gathered regularly in each other’s homes, these warriors on the home front, to make quilts and shirts, mend blankets and knit stockings, bottle fruits and vegetables and other foodstuffs, write letters to lonesome souls in faraway army camps, and to plan campaigns and strategies for the future.

  They ventured out into the community, too, cajoling friends, neighbors and strangers alike, willing to beg and borrow, if not steal, whatever items a soldier might find useful—headache powders and other expedient remedies from the druggists, soap and coffee beans and homemade balm for chapped lips and blistered heels from anyone who had them to give.

  Gettysburg
was a thriving market town, with many prosperous residents and, in the early days of the war, the donations were generous. Merchants gave goods by the crateful, flour and dried beans by the barrel. Farmers brought their bumper crops of potatoes, squash, carrots, onions and turnips to the ladies by the wagonload, often with great slabs of salt pork and crocks brimming with fresh eggs, preserved in water-glass.

  He has seen for himself when he was back home on brief leave how all this bounty was carefully sorted and cataloged by the ladies of Gettysburg before being sent on, mostly via the railroads, to a distribution center in Baltimore, from which it would be dispersed to battlefronts and hospitals all over the North.

  Of course, as the war dragged on, and the inevitable shortages arose, the flood of goodwill had dwindled considerably, but Jacob knew from Caroline’s letters that scarcity only redoubled the determination of petticoat generals such as his wife. In her words, they simply “pushed up their sleeves and worked a little harder.”

  Caroline was no stranger to hardship, and neither were most of her friends.

  She was accustomed to enduring trouble, disappointment and heartache, having had more than her fair portion of all those things, and she bore up with remarkable stoicism, the current state of the nation notwithstanding.

  The work of farming was fraught with perils; crops could be destroyed by hail or drought or a freak frost, wildfires and plagues of grasshoppers, or made worthless by a drop in prices.

  He and Caroline had grappled with several disasters and come through, although not without struggle.

  * * *

  Still, life had been harder on Caroline than it was on many folks, right from the first.

  She’d been only four or five years old when a fever struck, sudden and vicious, carrying off her mother, father and younger sister in the space of a single day. Caroline, too, had fallen ill, but somehow she’d pulled through.

  Her paternal grandparents, Doc Prescott and his wife, Geneva, had taken her in and looked after her with all tenderness, but she’d been sickly for some time, and grieved sorely for her mama and papa and beloved little sister.