RomanceEverAfter

Romantic Tales - U.S. Civil War

A More Perfect Union
by John A. Broussard
© 2003 John A. Broussard

Kate McKenzie knew her tears were as much for herself as for him. The news really didn’t much surprise her. When Newell had told her he was off to fight for the secessionists, she hadn’t tried to stop him. She knew any such attempt was bound to be futile, even though Kentucky was a neutral state and neither side was forcing men to the colors. 

Newell insisted that since Tennessee had gone over to the Confederacy, he was duty bound to help his relatives there. Never mind the farm. Never mind little Aaron, just two and needing a father. Never mind anything but the sound of drums and bugles, the call to glory, the chance to fire his gun at a living target other than a fox or squirrel.

Roy—poor pale Roy—heading back to his parents in Louisville with what was left of his arm flopping in a pinned-up sleeve, had filled her in all too graphically on his cousin Newell’s demise at Manassas. The cannon ball that had maimed Roy had first mortally wounded Newell. Before he left on that hot, late-summer afternoon to resume his trek home, Roy’s last words were, "But we won. Made those Yankees skeedaddle all the way back to Washington." Kate had shaken her head in disgust.

The night was a long one. Sleep had been replaced by thoughts of what was now facing her. Could she run the farm alone? The tobacco crop would be the first problem. Could she fire up and watch over the smoke shed, take care of Aaron, milk the cow, feed and tend the chickens, slop the pigs, hitch up Blaze to the cultivator and keep the weeds from taking over the corn field—besides doing all the house chores? 

And then harvest time would be upon her. Hay to get in, corn to cut and shuck—the tasks seemed insurmountable. And yet she had been able to cope during the past two months while Newell was off aiming to be a hero and ending up a dead man in a nameless field.

Fortunately, Newell’s father had left behind a thriving farm when he died. He had also left a little nest egg that might tide her over if she could find help. But most of the young farmers and field hands had been fool enough to answer the call; some headed north, others south. 

Old Masterson, a half-mile down the rutted dirt road could come by and help some, but he had his own acres to work. There was no one else for miles around she could think of, other than women like her left with daughters and adolescent boys or elderly parents as their only help.

And, as though there weren’t enough trouble, the early morning light found her wondering what the strange sounds were that were coming from the barn. Rory had been barking in the night, but she had assumed it was the lone raccoon who occasionally strayed too close to the henhouse and plagued the dog. After making sure that Aaron was still asleep, and armed with a pitchfork, she made her way along the aisle separating the spring hay from the stalls, Rory trotting along in her wake.

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