Page 17 of Christmas at Carnton

Jones guided the wagon to a stop behind a line of carriages parked in front of the house—quite the busy place—and set the brake. Haversack and rifle in hand, Jake climbed down.

“Thanks again for the ride, Captain Jones.”

“My honor, Captain Winston.”

To Jake’s surprise, Jones saluted, something not required of officers of equal rank.

Jake returned it, then retrieved his knapsack from beneath the bench seat. The still-tender wound in his left shoulder pulsed a bit, and he paused until the pain subsided, looking back at the house again. So this was Carnton.

If the McGavocks’ home wasn’t impressive enough, the acreage was. The gently rolling hills of evergreen, poplar, and pine. Cattle dotting the fields soon to be covered in snow. He’d seen sheep and hog pens in the distance and wondered if the McGavocks had had their hog killing yet. What with the freezing temperatures setting in, now would be the time if they hadn’t.

Jones crossed to a door located on the right wing of the house, and a black woman answered. Jake couldn’t overhear their exchange, but the woman nodded. Captain Jones returned and began untying the tarpaulin that secured the wagon bed. Jones pulled back the cover to reveal a load of supplies and hefted a large crate to his shoulder.

Seeing the amount of work ahead and with the wind and snow picking up, Jake set aside his gear and picked up a medium-sized crate—and immediately realized he’d underestimated its weight. What was in here? Cannonballs? He quickly shifted the weight toward his right arm. And call it pride, but he wasn’t about to set the box back down.

The captain paused and looked over at him.

Jake met his gaze. “I’m wounded, Jones. Not dead.”

The hint of a smile showed on Jones’s face as he walked on.

Jake deposited his box inside the kitchen door and caught a whiff of something that caused his stomach to rumble. Only then did he see the word Flour stamped on the side of the crate he’d just carried. A wagonload of kitchen staples? That’s what Jones had brought? Jake thought again of how much more sense it made for these women to simply donate their money directly to the cause instead of throwing parties for each other in an effort to raise funds.

Frustrated all over again at this assignment, he retraced his steps to the wagon, feeling muscles he hadn’t used in a while. The snow began to let up a bit even as the air seemed to grow colder.

A holler drew his attention and he turned to see two young boys racing for all they were worth around the corner of the house and toward the front gate. Time seemed to bend back on itself and he saw himself and young Freddie racing through the fields back home. Could feel the gentle whip of winter grasses as the two of them vied for a swift path of victory, Pa driving the wagon some distance behind them, the dinner bell urging them on. And Mother standing on the front porch watching for them all.

Jake swallowed at the vivid memory and took a deep breath, willing the emotion within him to subside as he pulled the memory closer, not wanting to lose hold of it. Or of them. Why the sudden tide of reminiscence, he couldn’t say. Time of year, he guessed. He’d always liked Christmas. Had looked forward to it in years past. But this year the approaching holiday had an empty feel to it, and he wished it were already past.

One of the boys opened up the gate and shot up the walkway and into the house, while the other lingered at the edge of the fence as the gate slammed shut on him.

“Andrew!”

Jake turned at the voice and saw a woman walking hurriedly in that direction. Her near ankle-length coat hid the precise definition of her figure, but he was fairly certain she was with child. As if sensing his attention, she looked his way. He smiled, and she acknowledged him with a brief but polite tilt of her head.

“Andrew, come quickly.” She gestured. “We need to start back to town.”

“But I don’t wanna leave, Mama! I like it here!”

She joined the boy and spoke in low tones, turning her back to the wagon.

Taking the hint, Jake picked up another crate, this one slightly smaller than the first but—as he swiftly found out—even heavier. He angled the crate and saw the word Sugar stamped on the side, and his frustration only deepened. No telling how much the contents of this crate alone cost. And like so many other soldiers, he hadn’t tasted sugar in two lifetimes.

“You take all my friends away!” the boy yelled.

Jake couldn’t help but look back. The mother knelt and drew her son to her as he cried, but the boy tried to push away. Finally, Andrew—Jake thought that was the name she’d used—relinquished his struggle and slipped his arms around her neck. Judging by the gentle shudder of her own shoulders, she was crying now too.

Jake carried the crate on to the kitchen, passing Jones along the way, the captain having missed the exchange by the front gate. Jake set his box down inside the door and returned to find the woman wiping her son’s face and whispering something soft and sweet sounding.

The boy nodded, then sniffed and wiped his nose on his coat sleeve, an act Jake figured usually earned him an admonishment. But not in that moment.

The woman finally rose and dabbed at her own cheeks, then held out her hand. The boy looked up, such love yet such consternation in his expression that Jake wished he could sketch the image right then, capture a snippet of the power a mother’s love held over a little boy’s heart. A love he knew only too well. One that had grown and matured through the years, to be certain. But a love he still missed every day of his life.

The boy slipped his hand into hers, and Jake felt something joggle his memory.

“Ma’am? May I have a word with you, please?”

She turned, wiping the corners of her eyes. Eyes that held a question, and that were the prettiest shade of blue he could ever remember seeing. She nodded.