A Basket Brigade Christmas (2 page)

The woman nodded. “That’s just right, Mr. Tait. Thank you.” She patted the remaining length of black cloth draped over her arm. “It was most thoughtful of you to deliver the mourning cloth personally.”

Silas descended the ladder carefully as he spoke. “I imagine Jimmy was relieved to be assigned an errand, but once I’d read the note, it didn’t seem right to let him bear the sad burden home all by himself.”

“It’s kind of you to remember that beneath his brave act as ‘man of the house,’ there’s still a twelve-year-old boy who just lost a dear brother.” The housekeeper’s voice wavered. She cleared her throat and turned toward the parlor. “I’ll just see to veiling Minerva with this last bit while you go on back to the kitchen. Cook insists that you take some refreshment before leaving.”

Silas wasn’t hungry, but he knew better than to argue with Cook. Still, he lingered beside the ladder after he stepped down, watching as the housekeeper draped black cloth over the marble bust of Minerva, Roman goddess of the arts. As manager of Maddox Mercantile, Silas was hardly part of the social scene in Decatur, but the arrival of the crate bearing the Italian sculpture at the train station and Minerva’s subsequent placement next to the piano in the Kincaids’ formal parlor had been the talk of the town for quite some time. With Jonah’s death, Minerva would be veiled and the piano silent for weeks to come.

After gulping coffee and eating the sandwich Cook had prepared, Silas was taking his leave by way of the back door when he heard the housekeeper greet a caller.
Lucy.
He knew Lucy Maddox’s voice almost as well as he knew his own. He’d been hired on by her father, thelate Mr. Robert Maddox, as a tailor offering “the latest in menswear” to the dignitaries who frequented Maddox Mercantile. When Mr. Maddox passed away, Lucy surprised everyone by declaring that she had no intention of selling the mercantile. Instead, she retained ownership and asked Silas to take over the day-to-day management for her. He’d been thrilled to accept—and hopeful that Lucy’s confidence in him might breathe life into his secret wish. It had not—yet—but Silas was a patient man.

Always happy to help
was a personal motto, and nothing gave him more satisfaction than being called upon to live up to that mantra. Only days after the Rebels fired on Fort Sumter, when the ladies of Decatur convinced the owner of the
Magnet
to print small flags to be worn as badges, Silas donated yards of white muslin for the project. When the ladies decided to create a regimental flag for the local volunteers, he knew exactly where to procure silk thread and offered to make the journey to St. Louis himself. With the formation of the Decatur Soldiers’ Aid Society, Silas spent hours driving Mrs. Kincaid and other members of the committee about town to collect shirts, sheets, pillowcases, quilts, and blankets for “the boys.” He welcomed any opportunity to help, for in a day when every young man in Illinois wanted nothing more than to fight for God and country, the artificial lower leg and foot strapped in place below Silas’s left knee meant that he would never be considered “fit for service.”

He rarely thought of the unfortunate day years ago when a bad fall led to the serious injury that refused to heal. Amputation had saved his life, and over time, his wooden leg and foot became little more than an inconvenience. He thought of it now, though, as he stood at the back door of the Kincaids’ house, listening to Lucy murmur comfort to Jonah’s mother. Would Lucy ever see him as anything but the crippled tailor hired by her father? She had no idea how he cherished the occasional sweet smile that curled the corners of her mouth when Silas suggested something Maddox Mercantile might undertake “for the cause.” He would like nothing more than to stride confidently toward the front of the house right this moment and provide a shoulder for Lucy to cry on, for in the years since he’d worked for Miss Maddox, Silas had observed much. Jonah Kincaid’s death would wound her deeply—more deeply than others might suspect.
And she would welcome neither your knowing that nor your displaying uninvited sympathy. You work for her. She appreciates you for that—and that is all. So do what is needed. Get back to work.

With an inward sigh and a parting reminder to Cook to send word if there was anything more he could do to help the family, Silas stepped outside, turning the collar of his wool overcoat up to ward off a late-afternoon chill. At the end of the long drive, he glanced back at two carriages approaching from the opposite direction. Only God knew how long the stream of callers would flow this evening, but Jonah Kincaid was the first local boy to die of wounds received in battle, and that alone probably meant that Mrs. Kincaid and Jonah’s three young brothers had a very long evening ahead of them.

As he turned toward Main Street, Silas thought of other Decatur boys who’d enlisted. Samuel McHenry and Doyle Lovett. Robert Pritchard and John Rutherford. As he walked, Silas prayed.
Lord, give our families grace to endure. Give our beloved president Your wisdom. Give comfort. To the Kincaids. To Lucy. And please, Lord, show me ways to serve.
Insofar as the United States Army was concerned, Silas Tait was “unfit for service.” The term stung. He was determined to prove it wrong.

A
s the evening wore on and the stream of callers continued, Lucy realized Martha was right. Words weren’t all that important. The very fact that people came—and that Lucy remained—was what mattered. Mrs. Kincaid said as much.

“You are such a comfort to me, dear.”

Shadows were lengthening, and Lucy was sitting next to Mrs. Kincaid in the parlor when the housekeeper opened the front door and admitted, along with more well-meaning callers, the familiar sound of the whistle announcing the arrival of the northbound train.

Mrs. Kincaid started and looked at Lucy. “I didn’t realize the time. Aren’t you needed at the depot?”

“They’ll understand,” Lucy said.

Mrs. Kincaid’s hazel eyes sparkled with fresh tears. “The best way to honor our dear Jonah is to care for the living. And so I must insist, dear girl, that you fulfill your duty to the Basket Brigade.” She took Lucy’s hand and rose from the settee they’d shared. “Come along, now.” Like a mother, she led the way to the foyer, took Lucy’s shawl and bonnet down from the hall tree, and pointed her to the door.

Lucy paused at the base of the porch steps, suddenly aware of just how weary she felt. Adjusting her shawl so that it hugged her neck, she hurried to Main Street, passing Maddox Mercantile just as the Widow Tompkins was locking up.

“You poor dear,” the widow said. “Mr. Tait said you were the first caller to arrive at the house earlier today. Have you been with the Kincaids all this time?”

“I have, but—Silas was there? I didn’t see him.”

When young Master Kincaid brought the note regarding the need for crape, Mr. Tait wasn’t about to let the poor boy complete such a sad errand alone. He was at the house for at least a couple of hours, helping the housekeeper with the draping. He was just leaving by way of the back door when he heard you speaking to Mrs. Kincaid. ‘She’ll be all right,’ he told me when he returned. ‘Miss Maddox is with her.’”

Lucy looked past the gray-haired woman toward the store. “Is Silas still working, then?”

“Oh, no. He’s gone back to the Kincaids. Making a ‘proper call,’ he said.” Mrs. Tompkins smiled. “I think it was just an excuse to check on those three boys, the poor dears. Would you believe that Mr. Tait knows the favorite candy of every boy in that family? He took a few pieces of each with him. Wasn’t that the nicest thing?”

Lucy agreed that it was. “We heard the train whistle, and Jonah’s mother insisted that I keep my promise to the Basket Brigade. She said it’s more important now than ever.”

“God bless her,” the widow said. “What’s Mrs. McHenry assigned you?”

“I’ll find out when we get there,” Lucy said. “It’s very good of you to help, by the way. I can’t imagine how tired you must be after a day on your feet at the store.”

“Oh, it’s not so terrible,” the widow said. “I’m thankful for your willingness to allow me the job.”

“You’ve Mr. Tait to thank for that,” Lucy said. “He made an excellent case for hiring you, and you’ve proven him right.” In truth, it had taken some convincing to get Lucy to agree to it, for they lived in a world where the only legitimate employment for a woman like the Widow Tompkins—who had no father or brother to provide for her—was teaching or sewing. Mrs. Tompkins had talent for neither, and she lived in a tiny two-room cottage that barely rated as a house. Taking in boarders was not possible.

“Mr. Tait would never go against your wishes, Miss Maddox, and so I thank you for saving me the indignity of becoming an object of pity—or contempt.”

Uncomfortable with the woman’s praise, Lucy was relieved that they had arrived at the depot. Several pairs of ladies with baskets brimming with food for the soldiers on board the train were already hurrying across the platform toward the hospital cars. Lucy followed Mrs. Tompkins inside, grateful for the warmth and the welcoming aroma of fresh coffee, unexpectedly overwhelmed with a sense of pride in what the ladies of Decatur had accomplished in recent months.

Every day when the hospital train reached Centralia one hundred miles to the south, the agent of the Illinois Central there telegraphed the agent in Decatur to relay how many wounded men were on the train. Armed with that information, the ladies prepared to serve them during a half-hour layover in Decatur. Over the months, Lucy and the ladies of the Basket Brigade had doled out fried chicken, pickled peaches, pound cake, apples, biscuits, sandwiches, doughnuts, and more. For a city of only six thousand souls, with at least a third of the population gone to war, it had been a monumental undertaking. The first train full of hungry, hurting men cheered the ladies, and after that no one would have dared consider suspending the project. They would serve the boys until the very last patient had been transported from overcrowded hospitals farther south to better equipped facilities in Chicago.

Hurrying to the table laden with filled baskets, Lucy and Mrs. Tompkins each grabbed one. Together, they made their way to the most distant car, where a soldier waited to help them up the steep stairs. As soon as Lucy stepped through the door, another soldier with a lilting Irish accent called out, “What did I tell you, boys? They may not have wings as we can see them, but sure as Decatur brings us angels, may the saints be praised.” When Lucy handed him a bit of pound cake, he held it up for all to see. “Angels with cake!”

There was laughter and good humor as the two women made their way down the aisle—so much laughter and good humor that Lucy’s heart broke a dozen times, humbled by the men’s gratitude and once again amazed that they could put on such a brave face. Bandaged or missing limbs and faces either too pale or blazing with fever evidenced their suffering. Some eyes glittered with unspilled tears and yet, almost to a man, the soldiers had nothing but good words for the ladies.

Lucy had emptied her basket and was waiting for Mrs. Tompkins when the young man nearest her said quietly, “Please tell whoever made the pound cake that she gave a boy from New York a taste of home.” His voice wavered as he choked out the words, “Tell her that Private Joe Donlin blesses her for it.”

“I’ll make sure she hears of it,” Lucy said, wondering which of the two dozen pound cakes he’d tasted. Of course, it didn’t matter. She’d tell all the bakers about Private Donlin.

“Beware of that one,” a soldier across the way called out. “Next thing you know, he’ll be writing love letters, just to get more pound cake.”

“Or a pair of socks,” someone hollered.

“If it’s socks you want, you’d better write a poem.”

“A poem? I’d write an entire ode if it’d earn me a blanket without holes.”

“An ode to holes? Why’d you write an ode to holes?”

Private Donlin looked up at Lucy with a grin. “Don’t mind Lyle. He doesn’t hear very well these days. Artillery gunner. Too many shells exploded with too little cotton in his ears.”

Good-natured banter continued until a blast of the train whistle signaled departure. Mrs. Tompkins joined Lucy, and with a wave and a “God bless you,” the two of them descended to the platform. Empty baskets in hand, they waved to the men until the train was out of sight.

“That was quite the group,” Lucy said as she and Mrs. Tompkins hurried toward the depot.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Tompkins said. “I hope Lyle regains his hearing.”

Lucy agreed. “All that nonsense about writing love letters just to get a pair of socks.” She looked over at Mrs. Tompkins. “Surely they’ll get fresh socks and new blankets when they reach the hospital—won’t they?”

“One can only hope.”

Inside the depot, the ladies were preparing to leave, gathering up the empty baskets to be taken home, refilled, and brought back on the morrow. Lucy stood by the door and called them to order. “I’ve a message to pass on to the pound cake bakers.” She told them about Private Donlin of New York.

“One of the boys on my car said he hadn’t had yeast bread for weeks. He showed me a piece of hard tack.” The speaker shuddered. “I can’t believe we expect them to fight when that’s what they’re eating.”