Let's face it, no historical romance author would write historical novels if we didn't love the research. We plan family vacations around historical landmarks, Old West forts, Early American seaports and ships, and living-history museums. We search the internet, historical archives, books, and artifacts that were touched by people decades or centuries ago.
History inspires us, amazes us, fascinates us, and torments us. No matter how small a part it plays in our books, we want to get it right!
Such is the prologue in my newest release, A Builder for Bronwyn (The Mail-Order Papa Series - Full Series).
During the American Civil War, women played a significant role in supporting the troops. One such group was the Basket Brigade of Decatur, Illinois. The Brigade was a group of women who provided encouragement and a taste of home to wounded soldiers offering them home-cooked food. At the war's end, Confederate, as well as Union soldiers were recipients of these tender mercies.
The Brigade was formed in March 1862, when several battles had been fought on what was then the "western front" of the war. All available hospital beds around Cairo, Illinois, and into Kentucky and Tennessee were filled. The U.S. Army ordered that wounded men who could travel be relocated to hospitals farther north. The ladies of Decatur stepped up. Every day for months, the northbound train stopped at the depot in Centralia, Illinois, where a count was taken and the number of wounded on the train telegraphed ahead. When the train stopped in Decatur at 5:00 in the afternoon, the Basket Brigade ladies were waiting to provide the first home-cooked food many of those men had eaten in months. In her memoir, Jane Martin Johns recounts the first time the ladies met the train.
"When five o'clock came, there were twenty or thirty women on the platform...Baskets of hot buttered biscuits, cold meats, pies, cakes, and pickles, will gallons of milk and cream were ready..."
"Pale, emaciated, half-starved and disheveled, the men met us with apologies for their appearance, smoothed down their hair with their fingers, and tried to hide the dirt that covered their wounds..."
Although the Basket Brigade only lasted nine months and fed over 1,200 soldiers, for the storyline in A Builder for Bronwyn, I extended their contributions until the end of the war in 1865.
She’s not what he expected…but could she be what he needs?
What she thinks she wants, isn’t what she gained.
Whispering Pines, Minnesota 1865
The stipulation of her father’s will was to the point.
In order to retain ownership of Stewart Woodsmiths, Bronwyn Stewart must marry or forfeit the business to the highest bidder. With three half-siblings to raise, little money, and no place to go, she needs help not only with the business but with the children. Yet, when Ian Taggart lands on her doorstep, she sees just the opposite of what she advertised for…or what she needs.
Imprisoned during the War Between the States, Ian Taggart doesn’t see himself as a worthwhile candidate for anything…much less a husband. Yet, when he meets his soon-to-be-bride, he sees a woman wounded in spirit.
Forging ahead in faith, can Ian and Bronwyn find the courage to see beneath the surface and create a forever family?
Prologue
Decatur, Illinois
April 1865
Ian Taggart clutched the bundle an elderly woman tucked into his arm and shuffled forward. Up ahead, the mouth-watering aroma of fried chicken and biscuits mingled with the warm spring air, making him lightheaded. He stumbled, crashing into the line of soldiers that stretched out along the length of the train depot.
“Hold on there, soldier,” someone called out. A moment later, several hands reached out to him, attempting to keep him upright.
“Get him out of the sun,” A swish of skirts accompanied a feminine voice barking out the order, and immediately those same hands shuffled him to a bench inside the depot. If he had the strength, he would have smiled at the woman’s officious directive. There was something in her tone that reminded him of his mama. A sob crawled up his throat. Though he missed her desperately, he was glad she was finally at peace, and away from the clutches of his father.
Surprisingly cool inside the sprawling brick building, Ian dropped his head between his knees. Taking in steady gulps of air, he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth several times until the spots before his eyes stopped dancing. Slowly, he leaned back and rested his head against the wall. Memories of how he got to this point flipped through his mind like a child’s zoetrope in a dizzying forward motion.
The wheatfield in Gettysburg. Minié balls striking the trees like hail stones all around him. A bullet striking and passing through his arm. Yankees surrounding him. The prison at Point Lookout in Maryland. The train ride to Elmira. The Shohola train wreck. The march by torchlight to Elmira Prison.
A moan slipped from his lips as he pushed these thoughts away. The war was over. And with it came freedom, though he recognized the fact that as a Southerner he’d always be viewed as the enemy. He also knew he needed to find work if he wanted to survive.
“You’ll feel better once you drink this and get some food in your belly, son.”
Ian opened his eyes and focused on the planked ceiling before he eased his head forward. The aroma of chicken and biscuits was stronger now, sending his stomach into a swirl again.
“Would you like coffee or milk? I brought both.”
The woman’s tone was kinder when she spoke this time. As dearly as he loved coffee, the memory of the swill he’d been forced to swallow at Elmira turned his stomach. “I’ll take the milk,” he said, finally facing his champion in calico.
He reasoned that if he’d known his grandmothers, one or both might have resembled the woman sitting next to him. While not exactly plump, she possessed a stout figure. Dressed in a serviceable cotton dress and sturdy black shoes, she wore a black cockade on her bodice adorned with a daguerreotype of a soldier. He’d seen enough of those to realize she’d probably lost a loved one in the war. Hidden beneath a simple straw bonnet trimmed with a frayed grosgrain ribbon, a few silver curls framed her face.
“Somehow, I guessed you’d choose milk. I don’t imagine they gave you anything to drink that even closely resembles coffee in Elmira,” she said, draping a cloth napkin over his dirty, tattered trousers before handing him a tin plate. He noted her hands, wrinkled with age and nicked with years of work. He was certain those hands could soothe and calm better than any salve a doctor might prescribe.
“How’d you know I was at Elmira?”
A veil of sadness dimmed her bright blue eyes. “When a train from the northeast filled with Southern boys like you arrive in Decatur, it’s coming from Elmira. Just as a train from the south, filled with federals in much the same condition as you arrive, we know it’s coming from Libby Prison, the Florence Stockade, or…Andersonville.”
Tamping down the urge to tuck into the food, he put out his hand. “I’d consider it an honor, ma’am if you’d pray over the food with me.”
Her gnarled fingers clasped his with predictable strength. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, son.”
Ian listened with heartfelt gratitude that he’d reached this place of grace. “Lord, allow this boy acceptance of all things in his life and give him peace that passes all understanding. Fill him with Your promises and show him Your perfect will. Bless this food to our use and us to thy service. And keep us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed Ian. A little bit of heaven filled his mouth as he bit into the biscuit and sighed.
“Glad you didn’t offer me hardtack, ma’am. The Yankees thought they were doing us a favor by giving us a “worm castle”. Begging your pardon, ma’am…it’s what we called it at Point Lookout. It wasn’t uncommon for us boys to find the surface of our coffee swimming with weevils after we’d broken up the hardtack and soaked it.”
Understanding his meaning, her brows nearly reached her hairline. “That’s simply scandalous! It seems that along with every other propriety thrown by the wayside these last four years, Christian values were trampled on as well.”
“It was war, ma’am.” Not knowing what else to say, Ian dropped the denuded chicken bone onto the plate and wiped his fingers. “Thanks for the food, ma’am—”
“I’m Josepha Blake,” she interrupted. “Most folks call me Josie. And you are?”
Ian smiled, realizing it was the first time in quite a while he recalled doing it. “Sergeant Ian Taggart, 7th Virginia Infantry,” he drawled, reminding himself he’d need to shuck the accent if he hoped to find work.
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