All Things New
Authors: Lynn Austin
Tags: #FIC042030, #FIC042000, #FIC042040, #General Fiction
© 2012 by Lynn Austin
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-0-7642-0897-3 (pbk.)
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design
To my husband, Ken
and to my children:
Joshua, Vanessa, Benjamin, Maya, and Snir
And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes;
And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying,
Neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.
And He that sat upon the throne said,
“Behold, I make all things new.”
Revelation 21:4–5
A
PRIL
3, 1865
Josephine Weatherly thought she’d already lived through the darkest hour of this endless war, but she had been wrong. Now all hope was truly gone. She huddled with her sister by the upstairs window in her aunt’s home, watching smoke churn into the sky above Richmond, Virginia, like thunderheads. How could the city where she and her family had taken refuge descend into such terror and anarchy? President Davis and the Confederate government were fleeing. Hungry mobs were looting downtown. The enemy invasion everyone had long feared was about to begin.
“Shouldn’t we leave, too?” her sister, Mary, asked. “Everyone else is.” All day they’d watched streams of refugees fleeing Richmond, along with the Confederate government officials, their wagons and carts and wheelbarrows piled high with household goods.
“Where would we go?” Josephine said with a shrug. Hunger made her listless. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the view of the city, barely visible beyond the distant treetops.
“I-I don’t know,” Mary stammered, “but . . . I mean . . . shouldn’t we follow all the others? The Yankees are coming! Someone must know a safe place where we can hide.”
No place is safe
, Josephine wanted to say, but she held her tongue
when she saw the fear in her sister’s eyes. Sixteen-year-old Mary had gnawed her fingernails and the flesh around them until her fingertips were raw. “Stop doing that,” Josephine said, pulling Mary’s hand away from her mouth.
“I’m sorry . . . I can’t help it! I’m so scared!” Mary laid her head on Jo’s shoulder and wept.
“I know, I know. But we’ll be all right. We’re safe here.” Josephine was lying, and God hated liars, but what difference did it make?
For all of her twenty-two years, Jo had tried to be good and to do what the Bible said, but God hadn’t paid her any notice. Nor had He answered a single one of her prayers during these unending years of war. She had asked Him to protect her two brothers as they’d marched off to battle, but Samuel had been killed, and no one had heard from Daniel in weeks. She had begged God to watch over Daddy after the Home Guard drafted him for duty, but he’d died of pneumonia last winter. Josephine had pleaded with the Almighty to watch over her and Mary and their mother, three women left all alone on their sprawling plantation, outnumbered by slaves. In reply, He’d sent a flood of Yankees into the countryside, forcing her family to flee here to Richmond for safety. She didn’t know if she would ever see White Oak Plantation again.
In the months since they’d lived here with Aunt Olivia, crowded in with other refugee relatives, Josephine had fervently prayed for their daily bread and deliverance from evil, but famine and fear had moved into this house on Church Hill along with them. Dawn never arrived; the long nightmare refused to end. And so Josephine had decided in church yesterday morning that prayer was a waste of time. The Almighty would do whatever He wanted, heedless of her pleas. She wouldn’t ask for protection from the fire or the spreading chaos or the Yankee invasion. A person who had the chair yanked out from beneath her countless times no longer tried to sit down.
“Aren’t you afraid, Jo?” Mary asked.
“No.” She felt wrung of all emotion, including fear. One way or another, by death or deliverance, the uncertainty and sorrow
would finally end. Jo no longer cared about the outcome. She simply wished it would come soon.
She heard footsteps and turned to see her mother, Eugenia, standing in the bedroom doorway. Mary saw her, too, and ran into her arms. “Is there any more news?” Mary asked. Josephine dreaded her mother’s answer.
“The colonel was kind enough to stop by before leaving to tell us what’s going on. He said not to worry, that the smoke is from bonfires outside the capitol building. The government is packing their most important documents and burning the rest. They’ll probably burn the tobacco and cotton that’s stored in the city warehouses, too, rather than let the Yankees profit from them.”
Jo studied her mother’s beautiful face, usually so calm and serene, and knew by the crease between her dark brows that there was more bad news. “What else did the colonel say? Are the mobs still looting all the businesses?”
Mother hesitated, then said, “Yes. He warned us to stay away from the commercial district, and so . . . I don’t want to alarm you, girls, but I think we’d better pack, just in case.”
“Are we leaving with everyone else?” Mary asked.
“Not yet,” Mother said, stroking Mary’s dark hair. Josephine remembered the soothing gesture from when she was a child, sitting on her mother’s lap, secure in the comfort of her arms. But she was too old to run to Mother now, and her grief was beyond soothing. Besides, Mother had a wellspring of grief all her own. “We’ll wait here a little longer,” Mother said, “but I think we should be ready to leave if we have to.”
“Are we taking everything?” Jo asked. She surveyed the trunks and crates of belongings stacked in their tiny bedroom. War had stripped their lives bare the way wind and frost strips leaves from a tree, until their once-flourishing life had been whittled down to a single room.
“We’ll pack only what we truly need, this time,” Mother said. “And only what we can carry. We’ll leave the rest to God’s will.”
Jo wondered if these last few possessions would survive or if
God would take them, too. She and Mother had clung to these reminders of their old life ever since the day a Confederate captain and his handful of men had ridden to their plantation, fifteen miles from Richmond, to warn of the advancing enemy.
“It isn’t safe to stay here any longer, ma’am,” he’d told them. He’d removed his hat out of respect, but he hadn’t dismounted. The horse snorted impatiently, fogging the chilly air with its breath.
To Jo, another loss had seemed unimaginable, coming a mere month after Daddy’s death. “But we can’t leave our home!” Jo had blurted out. “It’s all we have!”
Mother had stood proud and strong as she’d absorbed the news. Her inner strength seemed to be made from the same glue that held the universe together and kept the stars in place. She reached for Jo’s hand and squeezed it. “What will happen if we decide to stay here?” Mother had asked the captain.
“The enemy could be here within a day, ma’am, so I strongly advise you to leave. The Yankees are savages with no code of decency or chivalry.” He glanced around at the family’s slaves who had stopped work to listen and added, “Besides, there’s no telling what your Negroes will do once the Yankees get them all stirred up, promising freedom and all.”
Jo’s breath seemed to freeze in her lungs as she waited in the icy air to hear what Mother would do. The captain’s horse fidgeted and pulled at the reins as if eager to gallop. “We’ll have soldiers patrolling the roads into Richmond for as long as possible, ma’am. They’ll watch over you all the way. But we can’t guarantee your safety once we pull back.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Mother smiled, still the poised and lovely matron of White Oak Plantation. “Good day and good luck to you and your men.” She then went inside and closed the door. For the rest of the morning she had calmly issued orders as Ida May and Lizzie and the other house slaves had packed up the household, loading bedding and clothing, a few pieces of furniture, and trunkfuls of valuables into the carriage. Otis harnessed their only horse to the overburdened carriage and drove them to Aunt
Olivia’s house in Richmond, leaving the remaining slaves alone on the plantation.
The city had been swollen with refugees and pulsing with fear. It bore little resemblance to the Richmond Josephine had visited before the war, but it had provided safety and shelter for the past few months. But no longer.
She turned away from the window and looked around the jumbled room. What should she pack? The things that once seemed so important to her—her brush and mirror set with the ivory handles, her diary, her grandmother’s opal necklace—hardly mattered anymore. These were treasures for another time and place, unnecessary weights in a struggle for survival. She had brought several dresses with her to Richmond, but the only one she needed now was the green muslin one with their gold coins sewed into its seams. She unbuttoned her bodice and changed into that dress. Her mother and sister were changing, as well.
Josephine packed some essential toiletries in a canvas bag, then decided to add the photograph of her father, Philip Weatherly. It seemed like the very last token of the life she’d once known, and she feared losing the memory of his handsome face just as she’d lost everything else. When she finished, Josephine carried her bag downstairs and sat down in the parlor with the rest of her family to wait. Aunt Olivia and her three daughters had also packed their bags, but Great-Aunt Hattie refused to pack a single thing. “I came into this world with nothing,” she insisted, “and I expect that I’ll leave it the same way.”
The sun had set, shrouded behind the smoke-filled sky by the time they were all ready. The parlor grew dark and cold. Aunt Olivia made sure everyone had a quilt to huddle beneath. Fuel had become very scarce, and they needed to conserve every stick of firewood for cooking. They had long since run out of lamp oil, but Aunt Hattie produced a tallow candle she had been saving “for such a time as this,” and opened her Bible to read aloud to all of them: “‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear . . .’”
Josephine stopped listening. The others may find the Scriptures
soothing—and Aunt Hattie certainly had enough faith to move a mountain all by herself—but Jo didn’t. She considered the Bible nothing but fairy tales. She closed her eyes, wishing that God would end their lives quickly, if that’s what He had determined to do. As the evening dragged on and on, she began to doze.
A loud banging on the front door awakened her. Aunt Olivia went to answer the door herself, having sent all of her slaves to their own quarters behind the house for the night. Without a word, Josephine rose and followed her aunt. Their next-door neighbor stood on the front step, nervously twirling his hat in his hand.
“Won’t you come in?” Aunt Olivia asked, as if she was having a dinner party and he’d arrived a few minutes late. He shook his head.
“I saw the candle through your window and wanted to make sure everyone was all right. I see you decided to stay?”
“Yes. My sister Eugenia and I decided that we were better off here at home than out on the road somewhere in the middle of the night. Besides, we have no place to go. This is my home. I’ll stay here and defend it the best I can and take my chances with the Yankees, if they come.”
“Oh, they’re surely coming,” he said. “But they’re not our biggest problem. I just walked down to the center of Richmond and . . .” He glanced at Josephine with a worried look before continuing in a softer voice, as if hoping she wouldn’t hear him. “You need to stay inside with your doors locked. There’s no law and order in Richmond tonight, and the looting is out of control. These aren’t the Yankees, mind you, but our own citizens.”
“Do you think the violence will spread up here to Church Hill?”
“No one knows what might happen, Mrs. Greeley. And that’s not all . . .” He glanced at Josephine again, and she knew he didn’t want to say more in front of her.
“Go ahead,” Josephine said. “You won’t frighten me.” But when he spoke, his voice was softer still.
“The guards at the state penitentiary have abandoned their posts. All the prisoners are on the loose.”
“Oh, Lord, help us,” Aunt Olivia breathed.
“I’m going to let all of our slaves sleep inside our house tonight. Strength in numbers, you see.”
“Thank you for telling me. I believe I’ll do the same.” Aunt Olivia closed and locked the door again, then went out to the slave yard to order them inside. Jo heard the slaves stirring in the basement kitchen below her a few minutes later.
“You’re not letting the slaves come into the parlor with us, are you?” Aunt Hattie asked when Olivia returned with the news.
“Certainly not. I told them to stay down in the kitchen and to make sure they bolted the back door.”
Mother reached into the satchel she had packed and retrieved a small leather-covered box Josephine had seen in her father’s desk drawer. Aunt Olivia looked horrified when Mother opened the box and pulled out a pistol.
“Eugenia! Is that thing loaded?”
“Yes, it is,” Mother replied, calmly inspecting it.
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Of course. And I will, if I have to. I suggest you get the pistol your husband left you, as well.”
“But I . . . I really don’t think I could . . .”
“You don’t need to shoot it, Olivia. Merely pointing it at someone acts as a deterrent.”
Olivia went into her husband’s study and fetched the pistol and ammunition. “Here, Eugenia. You’ll have to load it for me.” Mother’s hands were steady as she loaded it. The two women sat with the pistols in their laps as Aunt Hattie resumed her Scripture reading in the flickering candlelight.
“‘Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid . . .’”
“We’re going to lose the war, aren’t we?” Josephine said as Hattie paused between verses. Everyone stared at her in the darkness. “General Lee’s army is leaving, and the Yankees are going to conquer Richmond. The war is over, and we’ve lost.”