Homeland (25 page)

And of course, Julia won’t hear of moving into town. When I spoke of it this morning she said, “Don’t be silly, Babygirl, you know Emory takes care of us. And Pa’s going to be back any day. We can’t let him come home, and find the place deserted. If we weren’t here,
it might even be burned to the ground.” I’m afraid I was scared enough that I got angry, and shouted at her, and she cried. After comforting her, it was almost noon before I was able to go out and check my trap-lines, not that there was anything in them. It was long past dark when I got home, and I heard a panther, hunting in the woods.

I’m scared, Cora—scared and so tired. Vexed as I get at her, Julia’s braver than I. She’s alone in the house, except for Tom and Tommy, and she goes forward with the housework, [
even in her condition
—crossed out] sweeping every floor, keeping the kitchen scrubbed clean, cooking the U.S. Army cornmeal and pea-meal that we’ve been living on all winter and that’s almost gone. I don’t want to and
will not
break into the seed-corn I have hidden—I
have
to be able to make
some
kind of crop! But I’ve been over this countryside, as far as I can walk and still get home by dark, and there is
nothing
to eat. I’ve dug up and brought home everything Justin ever told me the Indians ate, cattails and the roots of Solomon’s seal and what-all else. If we get out of this without poisoning ourselves I’ll be very surprised. There’ve been days I’ve been so hungry I’ve eaten some of the grubs I catch for the hens, and that’s the truth. The hens are so thin, I don’t even know if they’ll be able to start laying come spring. [
And Julia will need
—crossed out]

Day is fading and I’ll have to close the shutter soon. I can hear Julia talking to Tom in his room on the other side of the old nursery. Tom is so good about looking after Tommy, while I’m out foraging or cutting wood, and Julia’s cooking and cleaning and even doing laundry, soap-root being the one plant I don’t think I would eat. (But if the militia doesn’t bring back
some
thing, ask me again next week.) Outside, the hush that lies over the gray woods is terrible. I brought my rifle up here, and I remind myself how frightened I’ve been, in times of genuine danger, and I’m still here.

Well, we made it til morning. Silence all night. I feel like I could sleep for a week, but need to forage. My thoughts are of your mother’s attic full of dried apples and pumpkins—and of you, my friend. The enclosed sketch is of me keeping watch by the window all last night.

Operatic drama! I didn’t think anybody could misbehave themselves so badly they’d be asked to leave the Confederate militia, but Lyle Gilkerson did. Now that there’s sometimes a little mail delivery again from the United States, families whose men went into the Union Army are getting letters from them—with money. A fellow in Greeneville told Lyle which families these were, and Lyle took about a dozen of Emory’s men, rode into Greeneville one night, and visited these folks, horsewhipping one old man severely and confiscating several hundred dollars in greenbacks. The Unionist militia then rode into town, seized and hanged the informer, and went on to break into the houses of every Secessionist in town. When they couldn’t find the stolen greenbacks, they stole other goods as “compensation.”

I dearly wonder what Mr. Dickens would make of all this—or Mrs. Radcliffe, for that matter!

[sketches]

[lost]

[not sent]

Dearest Cora,

I got your letter.

I don’t even know what to say. Except, forgive me, forgive me, that I can not write to you, not now, not ever. You sound so alone.

What happened to your mother??? How horrible—How can you bear it?—to live with someone you have known and loved—with your
mother
!—and have her not know you? I can’t imagine that. As bad as things have been here—having to shove the bed against the door of my room every night, and pee into a bucket in the corner, and divide up grubs with my hens sometimes so they might have enough meat on them to start laying eggs … All these terrible things, and I realize, they are nothing, to what you must be going through, seeing someone you know turn into someone you don’t.

I re-read your letter this evening, in this pearly hour when there’s still enough light to see the writing. I can’t tell you how my heart rejoices, to hear that the beautiful Miss Mercy is tugging on your skirt and asking you the same questions over and over again, as Tommy has recently begun to do to me. I’m so glad to hear that, though your Mother is ill, your Father is still well and teaching at Yale, and so sending you money. I suppose I should rejoice that Peggie is well, too, but I’d rather come up there and slap her for you … and then stay for dinner. (I’ll bring some grubs.)

I wish it were possible for me to write. I wish I could find where to write to Justin, though I realize now I can’t write to him, either, lest he in his turn write to you. My dear friend, I wish it were enough just to see your handwriting on paper again, to know that you are still there.

[sketches]

Dearest Susanna,

I send this in the hopes that with the Federal hold strengthening on Tennessee, a letter will at last get through to you, or to someone
who can send it on to you. I ask only to know if you are well, and if your family is safe. I know not what you may have passed through since last I had a letter from you, over a year and a half ago, from Vicksburg; or whether you now have the smallest desire to continue correspondence with a Yankee. I know, too, that feeble protestations on my part of horror, indignation, or concern at the sufferings caused to you and yours by my country’s invasion may ring bitterly hollow to your ear. I seek only to know that you are safe.

I am well. Snow still lies thick, and the house, in its shuttered mountains of spruce-boughs and snow, is dark, and stuffy, and smells always of smoke and cooking. Mother is no longer herself, save on short and infrequent occasions. Her manner frightens Peggie, and Peggie’s fear communicates itself to Nollie, who is a fragile child, as nervous and imaginative as my brother was. Thankfully, Mother did recognize Brock for much of his furlough, and the weather was such that Papa, and Brock’s wife and children, all were able to be with us: a bright oasis of brief joy.

Even with snow on the ground, the Army recruiters have returned, like midges, pestering every man not in uniform: mocking, cajoling, offering larger and larger bounties. Elinor and the Daughters of the Union are already organizing days of speeches. Too, the Provost Marshal’s men are back, searching for the evaders of last year’s draft. One man, hidden on Spoon Island, earns money for his wife and family by cutting wood, which Will Kydd brings across on the
Lady Anne
and sells. Several others fish for lobster, a profitless creature in the marketplace but at least serving to feed their families. Will is a great help to me, and a great comfort. For the rest, though Mother’s condition is known on the island, we have had few visitors this winter. Her friends still greet her at church, to her childlike pleasure. Yet I feel their doubtful gazes on me, and have learned to wait for her in the sleigh.

My days are full of the most exhausting labor, my nights—once I have settled Mother—long. I am reading
David Copperfield
again, marveling at the cast of characters and yet sharply aware of who
isn’t
in the story: of who isn’t in
any
novel that I have read so far:
a woman who makes her own way in the world and yet remains a good woman. You asked me once, if I would have married Emory, were it possible for me to have the training a young
man
would get, for a profession? I admit that at times like this I feel imprisoned, and wonder if I will ever see my husband again.

Forgive me. The night is late, and I am woolgathering. I will seal this up now, and hand it to Will when he arrives. I pray it reaches you, my friend. I pray that I may still so call you.

[not sent]

Dear Cora,

I forget which Roman poet it was, who said that spring’s warmth stirred armies to life: the militia is out foraging again. Today I put on my brown dress (which is far too big for me and has only been turned twice) and walked into town, to find a doctor for Julia. It’s eight miles and took me three hours. The midwife at the Yankee camp agreed to come out, if I’d do her sewing for her, which she takes in for the soldiers and also the camp whores and laundresses, black and white, of whom there are many! It was almost dark by the time I got back and I had to change clothes and chop wood; I’m going back tomorrow. Julia and I had a terrible fight about me
working for the Federals, and she vowed she’d never let a Yankee midwife come near her and especially not one who takes care of the camp floozies, but as far as I know, Mrs. P is the only midwife in the county.

It’s almost too dark to see the paper, and I’m too tired to sit up. I’ve never done sewing for that many hours, and my chilblains hurt so bad I want to cut my fingers off. Julia sleeps in here with me when the troop is away, but I hear her in Payne’s old room—that is now Emory’s—crying. It seems like no matter what I do, it isn’t right.

Emory and the troop are back, which is fortunate, since we were out of everything but pea-meal and not much of that. As always, the minute no one was looking I took and cut as much as I dared off the bacon he brought, and scooped out handfuls of the corn-meal and peas. With the frost out of the ground, I’ve been preparing planting-grounds in about six places in the woods, to plant corn and squash, peas and potatoes all together, the way the Indians did.

I did sewing for four days for Mrs. P at the Union camp, and was very careful not to steal a single thing: not needles, not thread, not the food that they have so much of, though I did trade a little sewing on the side to repair stockings and shimmies, in exchange for beans, potatoes, and dessicated vegetables: desecrated vegetables, the men call them. Julia refused to touch any of it (they’re exactly what Emory and his boys steal and bring here) and carried on as if I’d traded my favors for them, tho’ these days I look even more like a boy than ever! In any case, it’s three hours’ walk into town, and three hours’ back. And, they need me here.

But I got Mrs. P’s promise, that when Julia’s time comes, she will be on hand.

Your letter. I used to pray so hard, that one day someone would bring me out from town a letter with your handwriting on it, and now it fills me with such pain. Back when I did not hear from you, and there was no chance that I would, it was possible, to almost pretend that Emory wasn’t your husband, that you didn’t love him. Now the fact that I can’t write to you because of him and Julia is like a chain around my neck. I feel its weight every time I move, and it strangles my words, when I want to say to you, “Be brave.”

The last of Gen’l Longstreet’s Confederate Army is moving out of Tennessee. The militia—of course!—made themselves scarce when a CSA forage detachment of them put in their appearance; they picked us clean of everything, even the wood in the wood-pile. Tom, who was as usual in his chair on the porch, cursed them (his jug of moonshine was the only thing they didn’t touch), and their Sergeant said, “You ask your militia pals for food, when they get done skulkin’ in the woods.”

That was yesterday. Today Emory and his men rode in, for Emory to see baby Adam (surely no child has any business being
that
tiny at birth!), and to bid us good-by. When I walked him to his horse this afternoon, Emory told me that they would dog the Federal Army as it marches South: “We’ll slow Sherman down, we’ll bleed him, like picadors in a bull-fight, bleedin’ a bull. And Joe Johnston and his army’ll be waiting for him, the minute he crosses the Georgia line.” I asked him, Did Julia know? and he put his hands on my shoulders and said, “You’ll have to tell her. I’ve just said, that we’re riding out for a couple of days. Will you do that for me?”

What could I say?
No?

Cora, I wish there was someone who could advise me. But the
only ones who could are the ones who would be hurt—or who would be certain to tell you. I hate myself, and I simply don’t know what to do. Please forgive me.

[sketches]

[not sent]

Dear Cora,

A man on forage for the Yankees brought a letter here this morning, from Eliza Johnson in Nashville. One of her friends in town had written her, that we were here at Bayberry. She asked, Did we want to come to Nashville? Tom used to work for Senator Johnson’s newspaper in Greeneville, and now that the Senator is the Military Governor of the State, would see about employing him as a clerk. She said, that so many men are in uniform, that women are being used as clerks. I could do that, or work in her house as housekeeper. There was enough light left when I came back from the woods, for me to read it, and have the worst fight with Julia I’ve ever had in my life. After it was done I cried until I ached all over.