Truman Haden is just ten years old the night his childhood disappears forever. After he is sent to live with his grandfather to escape the ravages of yellow fever that has overtaken his home, Truman learns all his family members have died and receives

Tragedy and Triumph

Elmira, New York, 1835-65By Kathrin Rudland

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Kathrin Rudland
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-2170-0

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.........................................................VIIGrowing Up in Antebellum South, 1814–35...........................1The Beginning of the Divide, Elmira, New York, 1835.....................10The Divide Narrows, Elmira, New York, 1835..............................19Aunt Binah, 1837–43...............................................31John W. Jones, 1844.....................................................45Naamah, 1844–54...................................................52Simon Denby, 1849.......................................................64Elizabeth, 1849.........................................................72Adam and Elizabeth, 1851................................................84Naamah and Simon Denby, 1855............................................96The Meeting of Truman and Elizabeth, 1855...............................109The Battle of the Wilderness, May 5, 1864...............................120Look to the Light, July 13–15, 1864...............................130Riding toward Death, July 15, 1864......................................144Adjustment, 1864........................................................156Longing for Home, 1864..................................................169Survival, 1864-65.......................................................185Darkness, 1865..........................................................204Confessions 1865........................................................216

Chapter One

Truman

Growing Up in Antebellum South, 1814–35

Truman Haden was ten years old the night his childhood died.

A vivid memory o f that moment was the ashen face of his father as he stood in front of his family unable to speak, shaking his head back and forth. The man bit his lower lip, swallowed hard, and then shuddered out words. "A few cases of the fever ... from a shipping vessel with rotting green timbers ... possibly an island slave ship. Please, don't worry." He looked at them with a glint of uncertainty in his eyes. "Not an epidemic as before ... no sign of fever in town. I stayed there long enough to complete my business ... decided to return home early just in case."

Then he made a gesture with his hands as though to scatter his next words in the air. "But I must tell you that I did suffer some this afternoon riding home, a light fever ... nausea on the way, but I feel safe to say that I am quite well now. Yes, I am well." He grimaced at the memory. "My God, yellow fever ..."

Truman had never seen his father cry, but this time the man wept openly against Truman's mother's shoulder, sobbed until he sank into a chair with his palms pressed deep into his eyes and his splayed fingers tangled into his hair.

"Thank God I have escaped its wrath this time." He quivered. "Thank God."

The following morning he suffered a relapse of the yellow fever in full force. A doctor, summoned in haste, examined, purged, and bled him several times in an effort to control the illness before it worsened. But the unmistakable fever symptoms intensified: jaundiced skin, a high temperature, black vomit, and bloody discharge from his nose and mouth. The house was quarantined from all visitors at once, and Truman's mother, the self-appointed caretaker, was the only one allowed to remain in the sickroom to nurse her husband. Everyone—family and servants—needed to move away as soon as possible until the sick man was well once more.

Truman crept upstairs—departure preparations were underway—and opened the sickroom door. The hot room smelled rank, like the meat cellar where the deer and turkeys were dressed and bled after the autumn hunt. His mother stood by the fireplace, throwing bundles of herbs on the embers as the smoke curled about the room and clouded the writhing shape in the four-poster bed. The figure thrashed back and forth on the bedding, shouting and ranting hoarse gibberish that made no sense. Where was his sick father?

"Mother," Truman whispered. "Where's father? I've come to say good- bye."

She made a slow turn and walked over to where he stood by the door. She looked shrunken and weary, but her voice was very clear. "Truman, you must not remember him like this. It's not safe for you to be near him, either. You must be brave. You and your baby brother are to travel to Richmond in a few hours with Bell and Rosie. Stay with your grandfather until life returns to normal. We will follow shortly after your father recovers and is well once more."

It was arranged. Bell and Rosie, elderly slaves, drove away with the children the following morning in a wagon loaded with blankets, clothing, and supplies. Truman looked back and tried to catch a glimpse of his mother standing in the entrance of their home, smiling and throwing him a kiss. She was not there. Home was suddenly no longer the same; a sign was now tacked on the front door with the word QUARANTINE in large block letters, and curtains were draped across closed windows like drooping eyelids, hiding the people inside.

The journey would take many days. Hours later, the baby, Henry, began to fuss and cry as the wagon wound its way westward. In an effort to soothe the child, Rosie held him against her shoulder and patted his back, coaxing him to suck on a cloth sugar "tit." She hummed and rocked him to the rhythm of the wagon's creaking wheels. Nothing helped. Toward evening, when his stomach became yellow and distended, Bell stopped by a streambed and dipped a cloth in cool water to bathe the baby's tiny face and body. The old slave shook his head as the baby cried in short bursts, flailing his arms and legs against the water.

"Nuthin' gonna help 'im now," Bell said to Rosie. "Can't go back neither 'cause Massa got the Black Vomit bad."

Truman was tired of the sick baby, tired of the hard seat, tired of the bumpy road that stretched ahead. He felt light-headed and leaned against Bell's shoulder to rest, startled when he woke up to vomit something that looked like black oatmeal all over his lap. The baby in Rosie's lap did not move; his cries and whimpers had stopped.

He heard Bell whisper, "Rosie, dat baby's dead, died a while back. Dat boy's got da fever now too. But dat baby needs to be put into da ground 'fore anybody knows he died wit da fever. We can't go to Richmond wit dat dead baby, makin' everyone sick. Baby needs buryin' right here. If anyone asks, tell 'em I's buryin' an old owl or sumthin'."

Bell wrapped the dead baby in sheets, folding the fabric around and around the still body as though it were a package. He dug a deep hole beside the road, buried the body inside, and covered it with dirt. Finally, he rolled a large stone over it. "I's gonna 'member dis place in my head, same as you, Rosie. Baby gone to da Lord, happy and sufferin' no more."

The last sound Truman heard was Rosie's low wailing as the wagon moved on. Everything turned into silence.

It was not until later in his grandfather's house in Richmond that Truman remembered the distant churning of wheels, cool rags on his body, and bitter liquid dripped into his mouth. The sounds changed when he left the wagon and lay in a feather-stuffed bed, its shape compressed into a valley with his body. A man's deep voice near his head said words hour after hour, pausing only as the sound of pages were turned. He felt cool hands twist and turn him to change the soiled bedding, wash his body,...