She-Wolf: short story

Recently I watched a UK film, "Centurion," which depicts the Roman conquest of the Britons (specifically the Picts). I realized that I knew very little about the Britons and their tribes. So I decided to do some independent research on the ancient tribes of Britain. Since I have Welsh ancestry, I particularly focused on the the Votadini tribe (or in Welsh: Gododdin or Guotodin), who came under Roman rule in 138-162 AD. The Votadini became a buffer tribe for Rome and other tribes within the walls of Hadrian and Antoninus. An ally of Rome, they became a very wealthy people, for archeology has uncovered Roman silver, plates, and silverwear in the region. With all this in mind, I was inspired to write a short story on the legacy of the Votadini people.

SHE WOLF

Rhian Bleidd was the daughter of Bleidd, which meant wolf or hero in the language of the Gododdin Tribe, a native people of Britanica. Many of their tribesmen called her Bleiddwen, meaning she-wolf, for she was born of a woman named Penarddun, which means most fair. Penarddun used her beauty and wiles to seduce Bleidd, for there was a prophecy in Gododdin that a great woman warrior and queen would come from the line of Bleidd. Penarddun wanted more than anything to produce that queen. Her greed would kill her at the birth of her daughter Rhian Bleidd.

At the time of Rhian Bleidd’s birth, her father Bleidd was out with the warriors defending their land from the vicious Romans. When he returned to the village he was handed Rhian Bleidd from the old priestess Adara.

“The prophecy will come from she and a man of foreign blood,” Adara whispered in Bleidds’ ear as she walked away to prepare the body of Penarddun.

Bleidd watched the old woman limp away, her white hair trailing down her back. The child moved and whimpered in his hands, and for the first time he looked at the infant girl. Her skin was so fair he could see the blue veins beneath, and her hair was as white as snow. When she opened her small eyes, they were as blue as a lake.

He took the child to his sister, Olwain’s hut, pushing the child into her arms.

“Feed the bleiddwen,” he said with disgust. It was at this moment that the Gododdin would begin calling Rhian Bleidd she-wolf.

Bleidd wedded Angharad, the daughter of the Gododdin chief. There was rumor, however, that on the last breath of Penarddun she cursed any other woman who would lay with Bleidd, in order that no other child would fulfill the prophesy. Angharad was barren. Any child she did conceive ended in blood and bones. In her grief, she beat Rhian Bleidd until she bled and casted her out of their family hut.

Rhian Bleidd found solace in the arms of Adara, the old priestess. Each time she returned to Adara, she would ask to hear the prophecy again and she found comfort in the words, for it gave her hope.

When Gododdin was defeated by the Romans and became trapped within the walls of Hadrian and Antoninus, Rhian Bleidd had lived a decade. Bleidd was becoming an old man and at the death of Angharad, left the village, taking Rhian with him south. He did not tell where they were traveling to as much as she asked him. They traveled through the woods and valleys for thirteen days.

On the fourteenth day Rhian Bleidd awoke to the sound of horses and men. She lay silently within her wolf fur robe and opened her eyes. The fire was black and smoked, and the place where her father lay was vacant. She sat upright and looked around. There was no sign of her father, their belongings, or their horses. The men on horseback sounded closer. Their words were foreign to her ears. She began to panic. Quickly gathering her wool blanket, her robe, and her leather pouch, which contained her few personal belongings, she ran and dove beneath the shrubbery of a hedge tree. Branches and rocks obscured her vision, but she saw as the horses approached the camp, and men dismounted, walking around where Rhian and her father had slept. She could hear her heart pound in her ears and she covered her mouth in hope that her breath would not give her away.

These strangers were neither Caledoniis nor Brigantes, for they wore strange leather shoes and wool pants beneath leather and iron armor. She remembered stories of the Romans and she feared her father had been taken captive. Suddenly, hands gripped her ankles and she scrambled to hold on to rocks and branches in horror. The hands pulled her out from under the bush and her struggle was in vain. The hands were far stronger than her own.

“What do we have here,” said the strange man.

She could not understand their words; in paralyzing fear she found that she could not scream like she willed.

“A girl of the Votadinis,” said another.

The stories were true. These men stood tall in their iron armor and horsehair crested helmets. She could not make out their faces, but their sneers were evident within.

Another, who wore a red cape with his armor, which was decorated with medallioned cuirass, approached Rhian Bleidd.

“What’s your name?” he barked.

Rhian Bleidd stared at him in fear.

“The little bitch is without a tongue,” the one who held on to her said.

“Quiet Batiatus!” he yelled. Then more serenely, “Child, what’s your name? I am Quintus Varus,” he said pointing at himself.

Rhian Bleidd swallowed her fear and hoping to scare the strange soldiers, she told them what her people call her, hoping to incite fear in them. “Bleiddwen,” she hissed.

The three men did not falter at her words. Instead, they went into action, as Quintus barked orders to the other two. With speed and efficiency, they had Rhian Bleidd’s feet and hands tied and thrown over Quintus’ horse. Finally she began to scream, hoping if her father was near by he would hear her and come rescue her. The horse startled, throwing Rhian Bleidd off its back. Her scream caught in her throat as she hit the ground, tears stinging her eyes. She struggled on the ground, until Quintus picked her up and placed her before the front pummels so she could not fall off. She screamed again, but this time, Quintus hit her skull with the handle of his puggio, silencing her.

She awoke at nightfall, yet her vision was filled with dim light and a starless sky. As her vision adjusted she realized she was underneath a dark tarp, furs piled on top of her and an oil lamp beside the mat she lay upon. Soon upon waking Quintus entered the tent, said some words she did not understand, and was then handed a plate of bread and goat cheese. He barked an order to her, and when she did not respond, he repeated the order, putting his hand to his mouth in demonstration to eat.

Scared that he may repeat his barking order, she began to eat. But as famished as she was, she feared the food might be poison, so she ate slowly, hoping to stop if symptoms occurred.

She remained at the camp near Hadrian’s wall for four years, as Quintus’ slave girl. She came to understand the language of the Romans, yet at night she whispered the welsh of her people in fear that she would forget. Quintus did not abuse her, for he treated her as if she were the daughter he left behind in Rome, renaming her Lupa.

Very few soldiers remained at the garrison at this time, for many were North at the Antonine wall. Life at the garrison was inactive. The soldiers that remained continued their patrols of the region along the wall, and drank and gamed with their free time. Quintus kept Bleiddwen from the troops and beat any man who made inappropriate advances toward her. One time she was caught in a crowd of drunken soldiers and she was passed around the group to be groped and petted. Upon hearing this, Quintus raced to her aid, and beat the men with a vine branch past submission until they were bruised and bloody. After this incident all men stayed clear of Quintus’ Lupa.

Five years after her capture, Quintus received orders from Antonius Pius to move to the Antonine wall. His replacement, Legatus Trogus Avienus, arrived at the garrison with his young wife Varelia. Trogus, upon seeing Bleiddwen, was succumbed with lust. Varelia, knowing her husband’s veracious appetite for the flesh, she wished more than anything for him to be distracted by a female other than her self, for she was disgusted with her wifely duties. Quintus, who was a centurion under the legatus, was ordered to leave the garrison without the slave, for she was a slave to the legion, not to himself.

Bleiddwen, who only knew the kindness of Quintus and was attached to him for protection of herself and her virginity, cried with horror at their separation. Quintus, a man of great pride and will-power, pulled Bleiddwen’s gripping hands from his arms. He swallowed the building lump in his throat and placing the helmet on his head, walked away to the screams of his Lupa, knowing he would never see her again.

That night, Trogus and Varelia, conspired to bring the girl out of Quintus’ abandoned tent with gifts of grapes, wine, and olives. Without any progress Trogus ordered Varelia to go coax the she-wolf from her cave, hoping the sugary words of his wife would soften Bleiddwen in their favor. Beneath the sugary words of Varelia was vinegar, yet Bleiddwen, who knew nothing of Roman women, believed her lies and followed her to the corridor of the legate.

Trogus and Varelia showered her with food and drink, and when Bleiddwen was happily drunk, they led her into the antechamber where they undressed her and Varelia put her in a purple Roman tunic.

“Now you are suit for a legatus,” she said, pleased with herself.

Varelia placed her on the chaise and showered her with rose water and petals. And departing into the shadows, Varelia watched as her husband did as he pleased with the Votadini girl.

In the early hours of the dawn, Batiatus, Quintus’ right-hand man, found Bleiddwen bleeding in the ditch between the garrison wall and the palisade. Batiatus washed her, put her in a tunic and fur robes, and placed her on a horse.

“Go back to your people, Bleiddwen,” he commanded. “Go as far away as you can.”

For fourteen days she traveled the land, but she did not remember how to get back to her people’s village. On the fifteenth day she came across a woman, who was scavenging for roots, who spoke the Gododdin language. Filled with joy she spoke to the woman of her circumstances and her name. The woman was revolted by her name.

“Are you a faerie or a witch?” she asked, for she was told Rhian Bleidd was dead.

“No, I am she. I have been alive all these five years, as captive of the Romans.”

Bleiddwen showed the woman her Roman military issued tunic and she came to believe her.

The woman’s name was Ulrica and she said, “Come to my village. My people are your people. They will welcome you.”

With that, she allowed Ulrica, to accompany her on her mount, and they rode back to the village.

They did not welcome her as Ulrica had said. As the sun descended on the fifteenth day, a meeting was held with the chief and all of his warriors to discuss the girl. They did not like that Bleiddwen was in their village. They believed she was a curse and they feared that the Romans would come looking for their captive. At the moment they were at peace with the Romans, and often an ally on the battlefield, so they did not want to incite violence.

“If she wants to be with her people,” said Brynmor, the chief, “let us send her to her people. Tomorrow at dawn we will escort her to Bleidd and his clan.”

Brynmor and a group of his warriors, rose Bleiddwen at first light, and they traveled across the hills and dales to the village where she was born. Her own people were not pleased to see her either and as her old father came out of his hut to greet her, she saw the frown on his weathered face.

“You have returned with a curse on your head, Bleiddwen,” he said. “Your mother spoke a curse at her death and you were brought in the world with those words in her mouth. Death follows you.”

Ceridwen, the daughter of the deceased priestess Adara, came out of her hut and rebuked Bleidd. “Are you deaf, old man? Have you never heard the prophecy?” Ceridwen was a dryw, or seer.

“The prophecy has been revoked by her mother’s curse,” he defended.

“A prophecy always overcomes a curse. She is the hope of Gododdin. She knows the way of the Romans. Only from her will we find freedom from the Roman irons,” Ceridwen said.

“Come Rhian Bleidd,” she said, gesturing for her to follow.

Bleiddwen told Ceridwen all that had happened in the Roman camp.

“If you are pregnant,” Ceridwen explained after Bleiddwen told her of the rape by the legatus, “then it is the will of the goddesses.”

“I have no desire to be pregnant with a Roman child!” Bleiddwen cried.

“Hush! The prophecy demands a child of foreign paternity.”

“That could very well mean from another tribe. Maybe the child would be from a Pictish warrior.”

“Unlikely. You must be prepared for whatever is your legacy.”

Resolute, Bleiddwen accepts her fate. Months later she gives birth to a son with a shriveled hand. Together Ceridwen and Bleiddwen take the child to a faerie hill, for the faeries to exchange the changeling for Bleiddwen’s child. Ceridwen recited the proper rites and left the necessary food offerings. They would return in one day’s time to find Bleiddwen’s child. The following day they returned to find the place barren, with no child in site.

“There is no rightful child, Rhian Bleidd,” Ceridwen explained. “You gave birth to a changeling. Therefore, the fated child is yet to come.”

Bleiddwen accepted this explanation, although she felt a hole was left in her heart by this changeling. Now her will and devotion required her full belief that the prophecy would come true.

Three years passed, then another three years. Near the summer solstice the warriors, led by her elderly father, went out to patrol the south region of their tribe. The Romans had sent word for help to assuage some villages in the southeast, near the Antonine wall, in exchange for silver. Many have accepted Bleiddwen and as Rhian Bleidd, she is given a rank as warrior. Trained since her return to the tribe in archery, she is now a skilled warrior.

Painted in woad root and hair combed with clay, they went with their horses prepared for battle if necessary. Listening to their surroundings they rode and stopped, rode and stopped, until they reached a camp of Domhnain warriors, which held five Roman prisoners. They all came to a halt when the Domhnain took up arms.

“What is the meaning of this?” one Domhnain, who appeared to be the leader said, seeing Bleidd and all of his men and women dressed in war paint.

“We came to squelch any rebellion,” Bleidd said.

“In the name of Rome, I presume, traitor of Briton,” he said, spitting at the feet of Bleidd’s horse.

Bleidd leveled his sword at the man. “Release the prisoners!” he ordered. “You will be paid handsomely in return.”

“By Roman incentive,” he humphed. “I think not. I would rather die than accept the patronage of Rome.”

“I’m sorry to hear that Domhnain,” Bleidd said, wielding his sword. “Archers!” he yelled.

A cry like banshees pierced the air as the Gododdin warriors released arrows into the camp. Exhausting arrows, Bleiddwen dismounted, drawing her sword with the metal singing in exaltation. She saw only blue paint and blood as she slashed through the warriors that came at her. As they broke through the lines of Domhnain warriors, Bleiddwen could see the Romans tied to a tree. She ran toward them, continuing to slash warriors as she reached them.

“Lupa!” she heard her Roman name and she fell to her knees before Quintus.

Without words, for she had none in her surprise and rush of battle, she cut their ropes freeing the Roman soldiers.

“Dagger!” Quintus yelled, grabbing the dagger from Bleiddwen’s belt as she helped free the rest of the Romans.

In one quick motion, Quintus dug the dagger in the side of Domhnain, whose breath was caught short and fell in a sputter of blood.

Side by side Quintus and Bleiddwen slashed and stabbed the onslaught of Domhnains. Suddenly, as soon as it had all began, a quiet emerged from the scene, which was only pierced by short gasps as they canvassed the area for survivors to help them into the otherworld.

That night they camped at the place of the slaughter in order to burn the bodies in the rites of their people. Alight by the fire, they all sat quietly in small groups. Bleiddwen and Quintus sat together beneath a great pine tree, watching the funeral pyre burn, and silently saying prayers in their languages to their gods.

Together they lay down beneath their robes and studied each other, for both had changed within the last six years. Full breasted and wide hips, Quintus marveled at how much she matured. Bleiddwen in turn, marveled at the graying hair at his temples and his sun-burnt face, lined with age, yet he was still a solid muscular man, who appeared at the peak of robust health. Beneath their robes they acquiesced to one another and he called her Lupa and she called him paternus of the future warrior queen.

Rhian Bleidd, Lupa, became the mother of a line of warriors in the Votadini tribe. The son of Quintus Varus was named Julius Quintus Varus. A long line continued the Varus name, until a daughter named after an ancient grandmother Lupa Varus, also known as Bleiddwen to her people, married another Roman named Tacitus two hundred years after the death of Rhian Bleidd and Quintus Varus. Tacitus had a son who was known as Paternus of the Scarlet Robe, or Padarn Beisrudd ap Tegrid. Padarn continued the line with another son, Edern or Eternus, who in turn fathered Cunetacius, or Cunedda, the Good Hound, who established the Kingdom of Gwynedd in the 5^th century. Cereticus, also known as Ceredig, established the Kingdom of Ceredigion in Hen Ogledd. Ceredig had a son named Seisyll, who established the Kingdom of Seisyllwg in the 7^th and 8^th centuries.

Gwgon, king of Ceredigion, drowned with no heir, leaving the kingdom to his sister, who married Rhodri Mawr of Seisyllwg. In the 9^th century, Rhodri the Great, split his kingdom between his two sons, Anarawd and Cadell. Anarawd received the Kingdom of Gwynedd and Cadell received the Kingdom of Dyfed and Seisyllwg. Cadell had a son named Hywel Dda, who united the kingdoms to form the Kingdom of Deheubarth. In the 11^th century, from the line of Hywel Dda and his wife Elen, came Rhys ap Tewdwr, who fathered the Prince of Wales, Rhys ap Gruffydd. In the 12^th century, the Norman-Saxons conquered Wales.

Descended from a granddaughter of Rhys, in the 15^th century, Owan ap Maredudd ap Tewder, or Sir Owen Meredith Tudor, married Catherine of Valois. Owen and Catherine gave birth to the 1^st Earl of Richmond, Edmund Tudor who married Lady Margaret Beaufort. From their union came Harri Tudur, the first Welsh monarch, Henry VII of England. Due to Henry Tudor’s War of the Roses, the unification of England and Ireland brought a peaceable reign and succession of his son Henry Tudor VIII, King of England and Ireland. And from the she-wolf of the 16^th century, Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII bore the warrior queen of the prophecy of Bleiddwen, Queen Elizabeth I of England and Ireland.

There is also a myth, that the changeling of Bleiddwen, carried her line to Constantine III of Britain, father of Uther Pendragon, and grandfather of King Arthur ap Pendragon. Whether this is true or not has never been founded.*

*I was able to trace the line of the Tudors back to the Kingdom of Deheubarth. Names are all historical figures, however, I used some liberties here to strengthen the fictional prophecy. The line between historical facts and myths are often blurred. However, I do believe there is always some basis of fact in myth. Whether King Arthur is an actual historical figure is heavily debated, but I wanted to use this to blur (or define—based on your own perspective) the line between history and myth.

A Victorian Christmas: An Excerpt from Book II of My Manuscript

1863 December 25, Friday
St. Albans, Vermont

Cutters, black and shinning with fresh wax, and horses leading with the crisp sound of jingle bells coming from their leather harnesses, were parked in masses in front of the large, brick Colonial-style mansion of Governor Smith’s. The airy laughter and sweet voices of eligible girls and the charming, handsome, deep voices of the men followed right beside them. These men who were either not in the service of our country, or home for the holidays on furlough, or because the cause of injury at the front, were respected by even the oldest, sternest of matrons. No man or woman who were not received or respected in all of Franklin County would be caught dead if they were to come to the annual Christmas party Governor Smith put on.

I watched, jealous of these young folks my own age who were still alive. Girls who were plainer than me seemed to be enjoying themselves, flirting with the most available handsome gentleman at their arm. Myself, on the other hand, watched with envy in my mourning state at these bright and happy girls with beaux flocking to them with gleaming smiles and the exchange of warm kisses on their mitten covered hands. At first I was merely thankful that I was able to go out and join my first true social event—a Christmas party. Now as I walked with the Mathis family into the Smith’s mansion, as we greeted those we knew and were familiar with, I couldn’t help but feel depressed.

The warmth of the house was busy with lively chatter. Girls giggled and squealed as they greeted their friends with kisses, and exchanged holiday wishes with their male companions. I was to look somber, in my mourning gown that was buttoned from my waist to my chin, which wasn’t at all hard considering that I felt the least bit gleeful as I watched these young women having fun as I once had. Oh, how I missed those days. And for once, I felt like I needed to put Robert aside, and succumb to my selfish ambitions. Then as quickly as the thought came into my mind, I pushed it away—I should just be glad I was able to come out on Christmas to the party of the season.

We walked through the marble floored halls of the house and up the large stairway. The stairway was a sight to behold. All of crimson and tan colored marble, with an Asian rug draped and nailed right down the middle of the stairs. Young women in their beautiful frothy gowns, their slim shoulders bare, and the ruffles at their chest revealing a slight view of white bosom, lined the banister. Even the plainest of girls made them selves look pretty with the confidence they held in these majestic ballroom gowns that were new just for the occasion. Gentlemen of bachelor state stood at the base of the stairway calling up to the girls and making comical jokes just to make the girls giggle—the men, smiling with pride at the attention the girls paid them.

Up the stairway we went through a throng of people who were gathered in front of large French doors, which were adorned with pine boughs and a large American flag and Vermont flag. We all waited patiently as we slowly migrated toward the ballroom. The French doors entered into the largest ballroom in all of Franklin County—and where the largest party commences. It was a tradition even the relations of those who resided in Franklin County could not pass up. Everyone had to come otherwise the year would not be complete without it.

The ballroom was brightly lit, alive with vibrant colors of garlands and red ribbon hung along the walls, gathered together in the center of the chandelier lit ceiling. Men in their best suits, neatly greased hair, and smelling strongly of cologne, danced around with the lovely women of Franklin County. The women, dressed in silk and velvet gowns from red to the palest blue, smiled happily with rosy cheeks, as their perfectly curled locks bounced at their powdered shoulders. The ten-piece orchestra on their small stage sported a lively waltz that made everyone laugh and smile with happiness as they danced around the marble floor. Everyone was cheery with the festive spirit and one couldn’t help but be caught up in the happiness of the holiday.

From my perch beside Widow Mathis, along with all the older respectable matrons—such as Mrs. Chisholm, Mrs. House, Mrs. Childe, and Mrs. Smith the Governor’s wife herself, and of course Marguerite who “shouldn’t be on her feet too long in her delicate condition”—I enviously watched the dancers. I sat there listening to them gossip about everyone in the room and their relations. At first I was intrigued with their idle gossip, but after a while I became bored hearing about Fanny’s new beau from Maine or what Mr. Custis said to Miss Dutch the other night at the Laurence’s gathering, and could you believe that he would even have the gumption to sign her dance card? Now I found myself slouching in my chair and my toes tapping beneath my black gown where no one could see. It was so necessary for a woman in mourning not to be having a good time, now wasn’t it?

I looked around, at all the young people my age, having a spectacular time, dancing and flirting with one another. I watched Gaby as she danced with Landon and laughed with her friends Christine McGregor and Shay Buckingham. Then there was Seth who was trying very hard to get a young girl to dance with him. She only giggled and blushed, refusing, but obviously enjoying every moment Seth persisted. And of course there was Kara who didn’t feel the least bit of a need to bring down her pride in order to dance with a handsome man—for there were many who tried quite hard to get a hold of her dance card—she was quite content standing beside the punch bowl with a couple of her friends, trying so hard not to think of Bradley at a time like this. Seeing that I found every Mathis enjoying them selves, except for John…where was John?

My eyes searched my surroundings, seeking for his figure. He was nowhere to be seen. I sat up, trying to receive a better view. I looked through the mass on the dance floor—he was not there. My eyes scanned the room, looking along the many tables where food was piled high, and searched the perimeter of the ballroom where many people lined the walls as they chatted and sipped punch in fine crystal cups. But John was gone. He had disappeared from the lively atmosphere. Maybe he was sitting in one of the many alcoves that were curtained off by red velvet drapes lined with golden tassels. I thought for a moment that I would go search for him, but then thought better of it, and decided I would stay seated, resuming myself beside the renowned ladies of St. Albans, Vermont.

“Ella.”

I started and quickly turned to the voice beside me. It was John, the man I had been looking for. Why isn’t it the devil himself? “John,” I responded, nodding slightly as I regained composure.

He stepped closer to me and looked down at my feet that were still tapping and beginning to peak out from under my gown. John smiled and laughed. The first laugh I had heard from him all day. My lips curled slightly as I tried hard not to grin and encourage him.

“May I have this dance?” He asked sincerely, holding out his hand to me, searching deep into my eyes, and looking rigid and yet handsome in his uniform. His hair was greased and he smelled rich of cologne and cigar smoke.

The chatter between the women halted. I could feel them staring at both of us as they held their breath. Widow Mathis was the only brave one to respond to John’s outrageous gesture.

“John Mathis, Ella is in mourning,” she said sharply.

John only smiled and looked at his mother. “And too young and beautiful to be doing so. It is her decision—”

“Yes,” I said, a smile spreading across my lips without much effort as before. I put my mitted hand into his callused one and kept my eyes on his as I stood to my feet.

“I declare! What gumption that son of yours has, Mady! And the fastness…” I heard the gasps of the ladies who sat beside Widow Mathis, and I knew as soon as I was out of hearing distance I would be the topic of discussion—but I did not care. Tonight I would have a good time and I would enjoy my time with John.

I took John’s arm, his hand placed lightly over mine, and his face beamed. I could feel everyone’s eyes on the two of us as we took our place on the dance floor with everyone else. For once I didn’t care what others thought of me or how my reputation would stand after tonight—all I wanted was to dance, feel young again…and to laugh.

John bowed and I curtsied as the music started up. It was a lively dance, a heel-toe polka. John took my hand and put his other hand around my waist. With my free hand I held up my gown as we dashed along the dance floor, my feet following his lead. John grinned at me and I giggled happily. I felt alive again. I felt like myself, the person I really was.

Dance after dance, smiles were plastered on both of our faces, as he held me in his arms. We glided along the marble dance floor, never tiring or stopping to catch our breath. Finally the lively dancing began to slow and we paced ourselves as a plump woman came upon the stage. As the music still played she introduced the song.

“This is a ballad which was suggested by a recent incident. On the battlefield of Gettysburg, among many of our wounded soldiers was a young man, the only son of an aged mother. Hearing the surgeon tell his companions that he could not survive the ensuing night, he placed his hand upon his forehead,” the woman put her black-laced mitt to her forehead dramatically, “talking continually of his mother and sister, and said to his comrades assembled around him, ‘Break it gently to my mother’.”

I stood still, stunned by her address of the song as she began with her soprano, her hand placed somberly to her bosom. John still had a hold of me and he began leading me along the dance floor once again as we waltzed.

See! Ere the sun sinks behind those hills,
Ere darkness the earth doth cover,
You will lay me low, in the cold, damp ground,
Break it gently to my mother!
I see her sweet sad face on me now,
And a smile doth o’er it hover;
Oh God! I would spare the tears that will flow;
Break it gently to my mother.

Good bye, my mother ever dear;
Sister, you lover your brother;
Comrades, I take a last farewell;
Break it gently to my mother.

Oh, say that in battle I’ve nobly died;
For Right and our Country’s honor;
Like the reaper’s grain fell the deaden rain,
Yet God saved our starry banner!
My sister, playmate of boyhood’s years,
Will lament her fallen brother;
She must try to soothe our parent’s woe;
Break it gently to my mother.

As she took on the chorus once again, I stopped my feet, making John halt in our place. I looked away from him, avoiding his concerned face that peered down at me.

“I must return home, it is nearing ten. Katie will be waiting up for me,” I told John, taking my hand from his.

“Surely Kay has put her to bed already,” he said, taking a step toward me.

I looked up at him, “Please, John,” I pleaded. Couples danced around us as we stood there. “This is the first night I have not been there to put her to bed. I am certain she is having a hard time sleeping tonight.” John didn’t say anything. He just stared at me, his eyes looking sad and his lips pursed together. “Please—she needs me.”

John sighed and held out his hand to me, “Come, lets go home.”

I took his hand and he drew me close as we left the dance floor. We went toward the door and found Gaby sitting with Landon while they chatted and sipped on punch. They both looked up as we approached and their lips closed in mid conversation, silence coming between them.

“Tell Ma I had to escort Miss Coburg home. She has to check on Katie,” John instructed.

Gaby only nodded and the two of them watched us as we headed out of the ballroom and out of site. We passed by people coming and going in the hallway and reached the entryway. A woman with reddish hair fetched our coat and hats, eyeing us suspiciously as we headed out the door. The cold air rushed in our faces, making a shiver run up my spine.

“Good evenin’,” the Smith’s valet-butler greeted us with a smile and a tip of his hat. “Which one is yours?” He asked, gesturing to the many cutters lined in front of the Smith’s mansion.

“Let’s see,” John said, squinting in the dark. “I believe it is that one.” He pointed to a shinny black cutter that happened to look like all the others. A man’s shadow stood against it, his cap covering his face against the chill. “I believe we parked there.”

The butler gestured us to follow him through the maze of cutters in the snow. John’s arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer to his side. I felt the warmth of his body as we moved forward, following the tall butler toward the cutter that was supposedly ours. As we approached it, the man leaning against it looked up, and we could see it was Thad. He bore a tired smile and rubbed the stubble on his chin.

“Time to venture home already, sir?” Thad asked, quickly stepping forward and opening the cutter door for us.

“Yes, Thad,” John said, patting him on the shoulder. John helped me into the cutter and then boosted himself in, sitting beside me.

“Merry Christmas!” The Smith’s butler called, as Thad closed the door.

John and I waved farewell, as the cutter pulled away—beginning the journey home. I watched John in silence as he lit the lamp inside, the dark slowly melting away. We sat in silence, both consumed with our own thoughts. The cutter slid gently over the snow and I could hear sleigh bells jingling lightly as we moved through the dark of Christmas night. I smiled to myself and shrugged, warding off the cold that threatened to take over. I felt John move in his seat beside me, getting comfortable. Watching him from the side of my eye he leaned his head back on the cushion of the seat and let out a long sigh. His eyes closed and I turned my head to watch him. He sat there looking so peaceful and so near I wanted to reach out and touch him, to hold him close and tell him that the war would be over soon and there would be no more dying. But I couldn’t bring myself to do so. I held myself back, afraid of too many things.

Preface to My Manuscript

The sun has nearly bleached out my memory of her just as the wi of the Dakota plains bleached the young woman’s tin type I have carried for many decades. Still there is something intriguing in the Northern girl’s eyes, which causes the blood in my veins to rush through like a rapid river on a journey toward the sea. She was not particularly beautiful, but her quiet inner strength and the simplicity of her movements and her poised nature were like the enchanted beauty and flutter of a butterfly’s wing. Most would not notice her in a big city like New York or Charleston, but as soon as one approached her on the street of York, Pennsylvania or St. Albans, Vermont or even a suburban street of Pittsburg, her subtle prettiness and femininity would captivate any man, young and old. I too, I must confess, was a victim of this captivation. I always thought she was the type to make a good wife and mother, for she was poised and yet full of life and fortitude, not to mention of substantial genes. Her own mother was as beautiful as a belle, strong in character and persevered unto death. She was aristocratic by birth and willingly passed down her genetics and character to her two daughters. Both daughters were petite in stature, but with hourglass frames, topped with the fullest and shiniest golden miens. The eldest, whom this story is about, had hair darker than her younger counterpart’s pale, curly hair (which she was often envious of, for it matched their beloved mother’s). But I thought, as most who encountered her, that hers was lovelier, more warm and golden like the setting sun.

You, my devoted reader must be wondering the title of this fair woman who I met for the first time as yet still a girl fighting against her inevitable womanhood. Her name is still like confectioners sugar on my lips: Ella Mae Coburg. A beautiful, appropriate name for someone who embodied womanhood in her later years, yet was as stubborn and as loving as a woman could be. If any man or woman has changed my life it is she. If it weren’t for her I would have died during the War Between the States (and indeed became very close to it on account of my enemies—and I dare say, on account of her as well), instead I lived through the murder and mayhem, the desolation and dehumanization of the Rebel prisons, my exile as a warrior on the Great Plains, and my incurable illness that will one day be the death of me. But enough about me, this is her story. Through a compilation of letters, journals, first hand accounts, and tales of primary and secondary source, I have come to reconstruct her life as a young woman. This story is about her struggles, her loves and her losses, determination, and growth into a strong and charismatic woman. The very years that changed her life and molded her into the person she became: a loving and devoted mother, a pious Christian woman, and forever the love of my life.

For further understanding I will start at the very beginning and tell of her family and her childhood before the commencement of the war. As I mentioned, her mother was an aristocrat, a Montgomery. The larger metropolis of Philadelphia and throughout Pennsylvania knew a Montgomery or knew of them. They were wealthy folks and very sophisticated and respectable. The men were all lawyers, business investors, or factory owners, and the women only married well-bred, successful gentlemen. Ella’s grandfather and grandmother were perfect examples of the Montgomery match making system. Mr. Montgomery had inherited three mills from his father, a gristmill, a flourmill, and a textile mill. Mrs. Montgomery had been raised in Europe, mainly in France where her father was U.S. ambassador. At the time, America was yet a newborn/infant nation and Grandmother Montgomery, as Ella called her, was transported to Philadelphia to meet all the wealthy up and coming sons of America. They married after a lengthy and respectable courtship and eventually had three surviving children: Adellia (Ella’s mother), Agatha; and a son, Philip III. Grandmother Montgomery, along with a half dozen tutors and nannies raised the children, for Mr. Montgomery was always abroad conducting business deals with investors and overseeing the many industrial projects. Months would go by where the children never saw their father and Grandmother Montgomery would pack up the children and their tutors and a dozen maids for Paris or London, depending on the season.

When Adellia was only fifteen, Grandmother Montgomery sent her and her siblings to Pittsburgh to visit their cousin Will, who was attending the university. One evening in mid-January, a ball was held for the grand opening of a new museum and Will asked Adellia to accompany him (he knew many influential bachelors and fellow students of well-to-do families were to attend and he was under strict order from his aunt to introduce his young cousin to all the suitable bachelors). Of course Philip and Agatha were yet too young to go to balls, so Adellia was the only Montgomery lady there—and as told, the prettiest girl in the room. The young Christopher Coburg (a student at the university) was also in attendance at the ball and as soon as he saw the innocently, beautiful young lady in coral chiffon, he had to meet her. A friend of his was an acquaintance of Will Montgomery and they arranged for an introduction. Once met, Adellia became infatuated with Christopher’s Southern accent, charm, and casual attractiveness, and they remained close to each other’s side for the rest of the evening (nearly creating a scandal for the many dances he claimed). For the remainder of her visit, Christopher called on young Adellia, and by the end of her winter visit he had fallen in love with her. The day they were to return home, Christopher proposed to the young girl who, love struck, accepted his proposal and they were married six months later, shortly after her sixteenth birthday. Grandmother Montgomery disapproved of this fleeting courtship and brief engagement (and further disagreed with Christopher’s Southern and German roots), or rather disagreed simply to spite her husband’s approval.

Christopher Coburg came from a large Virginia family, raised on his father’s plantation, and educated on the etiquette of Southern gentlemen: hunting, land management, husbandry, argument and persuasion, the classics, politics, and chivalry. On the surface his childhood on the plantation—surrounded by the comfort of his warm mammy’s embrace and all needs and necessities met by the wealth of his father—was beyond perfection. However, beneath, within the confines of home, the children suffered the neglect of their father, who drank to excess till nightfall, and the exposure of constant yelling and abuse upon their devout Christian mother. A belle from South Carolina, Christopher’s mother was stern in her beliefs and demanded perfect manners of the negroes and her children. And last of all, she did not believe in divorce, so instead, when her eldest, Eugene Augustus, went to the university in Pennsylvania, she shipped the rest of the children to boarding schools and finishing schools in New England, in order to spare them from their father’s drunkenness and negative influence. Christopher was a young child when he first attended boarding school, where he spent the remainder of his youth except for holidays and summers on the Coburg plantation.

In the winter of his twelfth year he received a letter that his father had died of pneumonia. The older children were mostly relieved that themselves and their mother would further be spared from his drunkenness and destructive nature. Little Christopher had few memories of his father, but the few he did have left him sad and bereft. He remembered early mornings, long before his father’s eyes glazed from alcohol, when he would follow his father out to the negro lane where he would sit with the foreman, Big John, on his front stoop and drink coffee and talk quietly about the progress of each crop, disciplinary problems with certain young slaves, and who was having a child and when. Christopher would sit on a patch of grass in front of the cabin and listen to his father’s kind yet business like voice, as if he were speaking to a young man who was just coming into his own, even though Big John was at least twelve years his senior. These were the times he remembered most, not the times he, drunk, would march down to the slave cabins, rope and horsewhip in hand, and tie a disobedient slave to a tree and whip him the necessary lashes according to the accused offense; or the times he slapped or nearly strangled his wife for staying out too late caring for a pregnant negro or a sick child when supper wasn’t even ready at the big house; or the many times he used the switch or a wooden spoon on the children’s rumps or knuckles for lying, disrespect, speaking at the table, or just for being in his way. Christopher, a very disciplined and calm child, rarely was the object of his father’s anger, instead his father liked the little gentleman and if he ever witnessed or was a victim to his father’s drunken rage it was lost from his memory.

By the time Adellia Montgomery came into his life he had been a Pennsylvania resident for nearly four years and had left the plantation to the care of his eldest brother and his family, along with his aging mother, who would die within a year of the war (which caused the Coburg family to be torn in two—the eldest had returned and married in Virginia after school, and the youngest had remained in the North after graduation; those who remained were unable to be at their mother’s death bed). Christopher married Adellia when she was just turning sixteen. Mr. Montgomery immediately set up his new son-in-law with managing the factory of cook ware and home utilities, which was owned by Mr. Thomas Washington Harris (who in which Mr. Montgomery invested) in the small town of York, Pennsylvania, which consisted of some market houses, blacksmith, saddlery, wheelwright, and other shops of trade, orchards and farms, a make-shift platform for the York-Wrightsville railroad, post office, bank, an old hotel which was also a restaurant, a gristmill owned by the Wallace sisters (which was unheard of at the time and would have been a great scandal any where else for women to be in business), a general store, a one room school house/church, and some scattered clapboard houses and a single mansion in the Gothic style (which was the Harris home). As soon as the newlyweds arrived they were welcomed into the Harris home to stay until their own home was built. Mr. Harris, a widower, had two sons: an eighteen-year-old son named Jeffrey and a fifteen-year-old son named Ethan. The house was full of pretty Irish maids, which the Harris men admired more than was appropriate. Mr. Harris was a generous man, but he also suffered from rheumatism, which allowed for Christopher to assume all control of the factory.

The income the Coburg’s received allowed Christopher to buy a plot of fifty acres and build a home for his wife and their hopeful future family. The house was in the model of the Virginia plantation, with a flat front with pillars and a verandah to wrap around the whole house. The property was full of oak trees and wild grasses, manicured to make a large lawn shaded by trees. A barn was built for horses, cows, and a few chickens, as well as the storage of a buggy and a carriage; a paddock was situated beside the barn for the riding and grazing of horses; and a vegetable garden for the cook and a flower garden for Adellia beside the house. Once everything was complete they hired Harold O’Connor as liveryman, coachman, and butler, his wife Fanny as cook, and Anna McQuaid as maidservant. All three were fresh from the emerald hills of Ireland and their labor was as cheap as immigrant servants came in those days. With the household in order, Christopher felt it was finally time to name the small estate. The very day Adellia found out from the doctor she was expecting, they decided to name the new home Woodhue. And Woodhue became Ella Mae Coburg’s home. Anna McQuaid then became the nanny to the Coburg children and another servant, Macy Rogers, a young British woman, became the maid of Woodhue. Anna, however, still saw herself as an authority in the house, and reminded Macy and Fanny constantly. Even though Macy was given the title of head maid, Anna continued to take control, and Macy seemed to result to a more subservient role: Adellia’s handmaid and Woodhue’s cleaning lady.

Ella was two when Adellia had a son, whom was named Christopher Jr., but always a sickly child he would die three years later. Shortly there after Adellia herself dealt with continuous poor health, causing her to suffer from chronic headaches. As a result of her poor health she had many miscarriages, giving birth to globs of flesh and blood, or stillborns. It wouldn’t be until ten years later when Adellia carried her next child to term and named her Mary Elizabeth Coburg. Ella remembers her childhood marred with doctors coming and going from her mother’s room, but she never once remembers seeing her mother sickly and fragile. In her memory, her mother was always strong, giving her father a shoulder to lean on, instead of vice versa.

As a child growing up in York, Pennsylvania, life was carefree and eventful. School was always enjoyable for Ella and she made many friends. She was excellent in all she did and was the spelling bee champion two years in a row. She was not the most popular in school, that title went to Annabelle LeDoux, a fashionable and pretty brunette haired girl. Ella was always jealous of Belle’s attire and good looks, but in their teens they would eventually become great friends, nearly inseparable. There was a certain boy named Robert Moore who lived with his lame father and young mother in a run down cabin, on the opposite side of town, near the river bottom. For some reason this boy was always shy of Ella Coburg and nearly avoided her at all costs. When Ella was five years old there was a big blizzard that caused many families to be unable to travel to town for food. Ella knew the Moore family was poor since Mr. Moore was a cripple and unable to work. So she made Fanny prepare two baskets of food and she and Anna carried the baskets to the Moore cabin, leaving the food on the porch for them to find. I don’t know if Robert or his family ever learned that Ella was the one who brought their unexpected baskets of food that winter, but eventually Robert warmed to the bubbly little girl and grew out of his shell, allowing the two to become friends.

When Ella was seven years old in 1854, the year of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, politics were rarely spoken of in the Coburg household. Her mother had a rule that politics should never be a subject of table talk. However, she did hear some talk when her mother and father put on socials and parties. She was never allowed in the parlor then, but she would sneak away from Anna when she was supposed to be in bed, and peak in through the door at the fancy dresses and handsome bearded men, especially the young Ethan Harris (who always brought Ella a peppermint stick or silk ribbons when he came to call). And while she sat in the shadows of the hallway, she would lean against the closed double doors and listen to their languid voices and laughter, her ears becoming alive with their grown-up talk.

Some of the men predicted a war was quickly approaching. The Kansas-Nebraska Act was a foolish solution in soothing the conflict between free and slave states. Prejudice between Southerners and Northerners increased by the month. It was bound to get ugly—any fool should have seen that. It didn’t take a fortuneteller to predict what would ensue within a few years.

Days later, Ella remembered, her father said the word “war” and her mother nearly had a fit. She overheard a conversation between her mother and father, and her mother kept saying, “This country is bound to have a reckoning.” Whether she was referring to slavery or the bloodshed between Americans that was already being shed in the West, it’s hard to say. Possibly both. At that point war had broken out when “Reverend” Brown stepped into the Kansas territory. Mr. Coburg said John Brown was a hero and Mrs. Coburg had moaned in irritation.

“If you think Brown is a hero, I must be the Queen of England married to an idiot!” she had told him.

Five years later John Brown became a martyr to some and a fool to others. Adellia never did take back what she said to her husband. “See for yourself,” she said, pointing to the front page of the Pennsylvania Gazette. John Brown had attacked Harpers Ferry, Virginia with twenty-one men in attempt to free the slaves. Every man in town along with the Charleston militia fought against him and his men, killing the majority of them. Brown had been caught and was later hung. Adellia had Ella leave the room with little Mary Elizabeth, but she didn’t know that the curious Ella continued to stand in hearing distance.

“It says, On Brown’s way to the gallows, he handed his jailer a note that predicted more bloodshed. It said: ‘I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood. I had, as I know think, vainly flattered myself that without that without very much bloodshed it might be done.’” Ella once told me that she believed Reverend Brown to be a contemporary prophet. However, I fear, many of us could sense what was quickly approaching in America, and it would take a war to reunite the nation.

Soon many would forget Brown’s execution and prediction. Then Abraham Lincoln became President of the United States of America, Southern states began to secede from the Union, and a conflict broke out at Fort Sumter. A war was on.

—John A. Mathis, Jr.