Out Of The Ashes

DEDICATION

To Thomas Edward Snodgrass, Sr., for sharing his Journal of the 25 combat missions he flew over Europe in 1943 and helping My Only Wish come alive.

To my husband, Les, whose experiences as a combat photographer in VietNam helped enrich The Favor.

A SIMPLE CHOICE

CHAPTER 1

August 1864

Ellen Bidwell picked her way across the field. The sun beat down with a merciless vengeance as if the heavens above cursed the carnage strewn about. Sweat soaked her black dress, making it and her underlinen more a second skin than garments. At least she’d had the sense to give up the volumes of petticoats. Wearing one was sufficient now—at least in her eyes. She’d given up caring what others thought long ago.

Pressing her handkerchief against her nose, Ellen flicked an errant strand of brown hair from her eyes and stepped over another body. The stench of death hovered in the air like an unseen monster.

If she lived to be a hundred years old, Ellen would never forget that smell. It hung in the nose, refusing to let go. It stuck to a person’s clothes, oozed onto your skin, seeped into your very mind, and stayed with you forever. Bathing couldn’t rid you of it because when you least expected it, there it was again. And all the rose-scented handkerchiefs in the world couldn’t make it go away.

Ellen tried to force all emotion away as she stared into those lifeless faces, some Confederate, some Union. Some died with their eyes closed as if they had merely fallen asleep. Those she could deal with. It was the others—those whose agony clutched until their last breath that strangled her heart. Their twisted features were forever etched in pain. She prayed she would not find Andrew that way.

Tying her handkerchief around her neck, she slipped it over her nose as others around her had done. They, too, searched for loved ones. As far as there were bodies, there were people searching for kin hoping to give them a proper burial. Come nightfall, kin would be replaced by looters, unafraid to strip the dead of all they possessed. Ellen and the few neighbors who remained in the area refused to let that happen. Banding together they helped each other search for that someone so important in their lives. In Ellen’s case, it was the last important person in her life.

The war definitely had taken its toll on the Bidwell family. Ellen waved her brothers off to victory years before, then watched them return in pine boxes months later. Their loss killed her parents—she’d swear it. Her mother was the first to go. She just gave up on life. Her father...

Ellen squeezed back tears. Her father gave up on life, too, until a band of Union soldiers appeared at their door demanding...everything. He hid Ellen in the root cellar and fought for the home, his land. In the end, the land was all that remained. They shot him, took all they could carry, and torched the rest. Ellen huddled in the dark, listening to it all, helpless to do anything but stifle her cries and pray they would not find her. Everyone knew what Union soldiers did to women.

A man lay facedown in the bloody soil. Ellen froze. Blond hair tickled his neck. Andrew? Grief choked her throat. She fought the urge to wail and eased closer. He looked small sprawled upon the ground, nothing like the powerful man who stood a head above her. He’d wrap her in a hug so tight all the evils in the world could never penetrate it.

Squatting down beside him, Ellen grabbed his shoulder with both hands and pulled. The man rolled onto her skirt, trapping her beneath him. A stranger’s vacant gaze stared up her. It wasn’t Andrew. She pulled in a breath and willed her heart to start beating again. They were almost through the field of carnage and still no sign of him or anyone else they knew. Maybe there was hope after all.

With shaking hands, Ellen closed the soldier’s eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. She said a little prayer to help send him on his way, then yanked her skirt from under him. That was the only good thing about wearing black—you couldn’t see the bloodstains. For now, she refused to think of how the wash water would run pink, then red, recalling the stench and the horror of this day.

Her knees popped as she stood. Shielding her eyes against the sun, Ellen checked the progress of the other families around her. Just a few more yards to go and this would all be over. It didn’t seem right leaving the dead exposed this way. Their loved ones would never know what became of them. Parents had a right to know if their son passed, not guess or keep hoping for a return that would never be.

She bent her head and trudged on. They couldn’t very well dig hundreds of graves. There weren’t enough hours in the day, not to mention stamina, to handle such a task. All that remained were the elderly, the children, and the women. What could they possible do beyond recover their own?

A woman’s cry pierced the air, scattering a flock of big black crows that had started to gather. Ellen whipped around in time to see Mrs. Benson sink to her knees beside the body of a young man. Her husband turned his face to the heavens. Grief twisted his features. It was their youngest—their last surviving son.

Silent tears trickled down Ellen’s cheeks. Seven sons all dead with no wives, no children left to survive them. She was there when they buried the last; when they begged Billy not to go. But he was a headstrong sixteen-year-old with a vengeful heart and a misplaced sense of justice. All the tears, all the threats in the world were not enough to keep him home.

Ellen made her way toward the Bensons even as the rest of their small group converged on their position. Reverend Eaton and Mr. Dawson carried the stretcher. They waited until Ellen reached Mrs. Benson, waited until she draped her arms around the older woman’s shoulders and pulled her to her feet. Then they gently placed the boy...no, young man, Billy deserved that right after all he’d been through...on the cradle of canvas and carried him to the wagon.

The Bensons and the reverend rode home with Billy. The rest of the group, all twelve of them, walked in slow procession behind the wagon. Ellen didn’t have to ask if any had seen Andrew. No one would hide information like that. Andrew wasn’t among the dead. There was still hope he was alive.

Unless he’s one of the anonymous dead on another battlefield.

The thought disturbed Ellen. To never know... She rubbed the uneasiness from her arms and glanced over the field once more. It wasn’t right.

Beside her Minnie Jenkins struggled to carry her youngest child while two others tagged along beside her. She was heavy with a fourth, her husband also not here. Worry weighed down her features. She had to be wondering where he was, if he was all right. Billy Benson used to spout off about justice. Where was the justice now?

Ellen relieved Minnie of her three-year-old. It was amazing that her husband managed to stop by long enough throughout this ordeal to get her with child before rushing back to fight a useless war. Minnie had to bless and curse him each time.

A flush crept to Ellen’s cheeks. She glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. Andrew wasn’t above sneaking home when he was nearby. There were things she and he did that only married couples should do. But who could refuse? Why be bogged down by society’s restrictions when you just didn’t know if you’d be alive tomorrow? Ellen was just plain lucky that she hadn’t found herself in the same condition as Minnie Jenkins.

She let her head droop. Maybe Minnie was the lucky one. After all, she had a part of her husband with her always in their children. Ellen had nothing but memories.

The wagon turned down the tree-shaded lane to the Benson home—the only one remaining in all the area. Why it was spared, heaven only knew. Here the families lived, pooling their limited resources to survive. By day they toiled the fields of their respective properties, picking cotton from the straggly bushes, keeping patches of gardens alive. Restoration was never discussed. Neither was the future, much less the end of the war. Survival, now, was all that mattered.

They stopped next to the small family plot away from the columned house. Generations of Bensons rested here for all eternity. There would be no more. Ellen stood with the women and children while Mr. Dawson, Mr. O’Donnell, Mr. Lowell, and the reverend dug a grave in the soft, brown earth. Once complete, they swaddled Billy in an old carpet and eased him down.

With the first clods to fall, Mrs. Benson sobbed anew. Her husband comforted her as best he could. Reverend Eaton said his piece. Ellen doubted anyone listened. They’d heard the words too many times.

Mrs. Lowell tucked Mrs. Benson under her arm. Come on, dear. We’ll make you a cup of tea and let these girls fix us supper.

Oh...I don’t think I could eat, she cried as they shuffled up to the house, two old ladies leaning on one another.

Ellen knew how she felt. Her stomach twisted into knots. She rarely ate more than one meal a day. She’d just as soon leave what little there was for those who needed it more.

Aren’t you coming, Ellen?

She shifted her gaze to Margie Lowell’s sad brown eyes. They were the same age and best friends for as long as Ellen could remember. Some swore they were sisters they looked so much alike. Margie had lost her betrothed at Gettysburg the year before and never recovered. Ellen wondered now if the resemblance between them was still as great. Did her eyes reflect the sadness of a life gone awry?

Ellen looked in the direction of the battlefield. So many lost and so many waiting for their return.

No, I don’t think so. She took a step forward.

Margie caught her sleeve. There’s no sense in going back there. Andrew isn’t there. We’ve looked.

I know, she softly replied. There’s something I need to take care of.

Back there? Margie’s face screwed up in a mix of confusion and disgust.

It’s difficult to explain. You could come with me.

I’ve had enough death to last me a lifetime.

So have I, Margie.

She walked away before Margie could question her further. Ellen knew what she had to do. She wasn’t about to justify her actions to anyone. Hopefully, someone somewhere else would have the courtesy to do the same thing.

Ellen’s nerve faltered at the edge of the battlefield. There were so many dead and the day was waning. How could she choose? Did Confederate rate more consideration than Union soldiers? That hardly seemed fair.

She squatted beside the one nearest to her. She’d take them in the order in which she reached them and pray there was enough time to get to them all.

Shutting away any revulsion that might surface over touching a stranger’s dead body, Ellen checked the man’s pockets for anything to identify him. She found a watch, a letter, a book, a few coins, then tore off a piece of his shirt, wrapped everything inside and moved to the next man.

If it wasn’t of value, Ellen left it behind. Most had something—one man wore a lady’s ring on a chain around his neck. Another had his mother’s Bible close to his heart. Even if identification was questionable, Ellen still retrieved the man’s possessions. She knew the units which had fought. She’d find the unnamed, even if through process of elimination.

One by one she picked them clean, amassing a pile of pouches that soon turned unwieldy. She should have brought a basket or forced Margie to come along. But it was too late to go back. If she had to, she’d tie all the packets together and drag them back to the house.

Families had a right to know they’d lost someone. She’d want to know. And somehow she’d find a way to tell them all.

Ellen gave up standing and crawled from one to the other so absorbed in her task she didn’t hear the rider approach until his horse’s shadow cut across her work. She froze, afraid to move.

I’ve seen a lot of looters in my day, a deep voice said. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen any quite as pretty as you.

Forcing panic away, Ellen rolled back on her haunches and stared up at the Union captain looming over her.

CHAPTER 2

Ellen rapidly calculated the distance between her and safety. She couldn’t make it. At the first sign of flight, he’d snatch her up quicker than a hawk does a mouse. Granted sitting there helpless wasn’t much better. She was doomed no matter what course she took. The least she could do was accept her fate with some amount of dignity.

Adjusting her skirts around her, Ellen forced her gaze to remain locked on his. She refused to let him see the fear in her eyes and prayed he could not hear her heart pounding against her ribs.

He was lean with brown eyes that remained impassive. A stubble of brown whiskers shadowed his face. Nothing about his relaxed seat on his chestnut horse gave away his feelings. Why should it? He was the one with the power right now and he obviously knew how to use it to intimidate.

She tucked her shaking hands into the folds of her skirt. A pistol lay nearby. Could she reach it if need be? And could she manage to defend herself with it and not shoot herself in her haste?

Mind telling me what you’re doing stealing from these men?

I wasn’t stealing.

His gaze shot to the pile of pouches beside her. What would you call that?

Ellen never looked away. Her course was true and so was her heart. Maybe he’d see that and leave her to her work before night closed in.

I was gathering their valuables to send to their families.

His eyebrows lifted in disbelief. There are hundreds here. You intended to contact every single one of their families?

The extent of her mission hit Ellen full force. It was a foolhardy idea, prompted by emotions not common sense. Yet she would not waver. She could not waver, considering her own well-being now depended on her keeping to her original goal.

Hauling herself to her feet, she shook out her skirts. Yes, that is exactly what I intend to do.

He leaned forward, draping his arms over the saddle horn. May I ask why?

Because their families need to know they aren’t coming home. It’s not right they should keep hoping. Wouldn’t you want your parents to know for certain?

He straightened once more and scanned the reeking carnage around them. Yes, ma’am, I would.

Ellen waved her arms wide. It’s bad enough they must lay here expose with no proper burial. That’s not something I can do anything about. But they need not die in anonymity. So if you will please excuse me, Captain, the day is growing late and I have much to do before dark when the real looters come.

She gave him her back and returned to work. Several minutes passed and with each one Ellen swore she could feel his gaze boring into her. Then, to her surprise, he turned his horse and rode away.

Tension seeped from her body. She was safe for now, but that was no cause to dawdle. She was lucky this time. From now on, she’d have to be more alert.

Quickening her pace, Ellen resumed her work. This time she felt like a looter, patting her hands along the body, dipping them into pockets. She dumped her booty into its makeshift pouch, tied it to the rest and moved on. By now the pouches dragged behind her in an impossibly long and bulky line. At this rate it would be a mile long once she finished. Ellen glanced at the sun edging closer toward the horizon...

A noise drew her attention in the opposite direction. She saw the flame from the torches peeking over the gentle rise, then the wagon. At least two dozen Union soldiers were perched in the bed. Each had a rifle slung across his back, a spade in one hand and a torch in the other. The captain sat on the seat next to the driver. The wagon moved in a straight line to Ellen, then stopped. Her heart