Candle in the Darkness

by Lynn Austin

  “Are you going to loan President Davis your ships?”

  “Sugar . . . I’m going to sail to England with them myself.”

  “He’s asking you to be a blockade-runner? Daddy, no! It’s too dangerous!”

  “The president didn’t ask me to go—I volunteered.” I tried to protest, but Daddy wasn’t listening. “There’s nothing useful for an old man like me to do around here. Besides, importing things is my job, Caroline. I’m good at it. I’ve done it for nearly twenty years.”

  “But not with the U.S. Navy trying to shoot you out of the water!”

  He reached to take my hand in his. “It’s a very big ocean.We’ll be transporting the rifles from England to Bermuda, first. The odds are very good that we’ll never even encounter the Navy. The freight steamers that run from Bermuda to our Southern ports are small enough and swift enough to outmaneuver the Union ships.”

  I felt too numb to absorb what Daddy was telling me. I only knew that I was about to suffer yet another loss. “How long will you be gone?” I finally asked.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll probably return home from time to time, but I plan to make runs for the Confederacy for as long as I’m needed. It’s not just for arms. We also need tools, medicine, things like that. And if I can carry a load or two of cotton to England on my way over for the rifles . . . well, so much the better.”

  I felt too overwhelmed to speak. Daddy was leaving. Like Charles and Jonathan, he was willing to risk death for the Confederacy. He rose from his chair and stood over me, resting his hands on my shoulders.

  “You mustn’t worry, Sugar. I have a good man to manage my affairs here in Richmond. I’ve instructed him to give you whatever funds you need to live on.”

  “I’m not worried about money.”

  “Good. You shouldn’t be. I know I can rely on you to run the household and oversee the servants for me while I’m away.”

  I looked up at him. “First Charles left me . . . and now you? I’ll be all alone.”

  “You won’t be alone,” he said gently. “You’ll have Tessie and Eli.” I heard something sad and wistful in his tone, almost as if he was envious of the relationship I had with them. And he was right, of course. They wouldn’t think of leaving me alone and defenseless.

  When the terrible day finally arrived and I had to say goodbye to Daddy, he called all of the servants into his library with us to give them their final instructions.

  “You are all fine men and women,” he said as they stood in a line in front of him. “I’ve seen the kindness and . . . yes, the love you’ve shown my daughter. I’m leaving her in your hands, trusting you all to take good care of her. If anything should happen to me, you will become Caroline’s property according to my will. She’s free to do whatever she wishes with you.” As Daddy walked down the row of servants, saying a few words of farewell to each one, all six of them stared mutely at their own feet.

  “Luella, I know you’ll do just as fine a job for Caroline as you’ve always done for me. Gilbert, thank you for your faithful service. Be strong. Ruby, take good care of Caroline, for her mother’s sake. Esther, you’ve been an excellent cook . . . and so much more. Eli, it’s easier for me to leave, knowing my daughter is in your very capable hands. Tessie . . .” He paused, and I was amazed to see that Daddy was battling his emotions. “Tessie, thank you . . . for everything.”

  His farewell speech alarmed me. It sounded as though he was saying good-bye forever. “You’ll be back in a few months, won’t you, Daddy?” I asked when we were alone.

  “Yes, Sugar. God willing, I’ll be back. Until then . . . may He keep you in His care.” Then Daddy left, just as Charles and Jonathan had. All I could do was watch helplessly as the war continued to swallow up everyone and everything I had ever loved.

  Chapter Thirteen

  July 1861

  My stomach rolled with the wheels of the carriage as Gilbert inched the horses forward several more yards, then stopped again. We sat in a long line of carriages, waiting to disembark beneath the St. Johns’ porte cochere for the sewing-society meeting. I was in no hurry to arrive. Before leaving home that hot July morning, I had watched from my bedroom window as Luella and Ruby washed laundry in wooden tubs in our backyard. I’d seen them each grab one end of a linen sheet and twist in opposite directions to wring all the water from it. That’s the way my stomach felt now—as if someone had grabbed both ends and was twisting it into knots.

  Up ahead, the matrons and belles who had already alighted from their carriages greeted one another, their laughter as bright and dry as the sun. I dreaded joining them. It had been easier to face these wealthy society ladies when I had Charles’ arm to cling to. And since I had little in common with the young women my own age, I usually tried to float, unnoticed, in Sally’s sociable wake. But Sally would be our hostess today; I could hardly expect her to tow me behind her like a lost child. The next several hours were certain to be torturous.

  As volunteer soldiers continued to pour into Richmond, the production of Confederate uniforms fell far behind the demand. The few textile mills and manufacturing plants that we did have were able to produce the cloth and cut it into pieces with patterns, but with so many men enlisting, they lacked the manpower to sew the pieces together. In order to help the cause, every fashionable ladies’ society—previously devoted to frivolous amusements—was being transformed into a sewing society. The one that Sally and her mother had invited me to join was among the city’s most prestigious.

  At last Gilbert rolled our carriage to a halt beneath the porte cochere. “All right, Tessie,” I said with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

  She stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Now, you know I ain’t allowed to go waltzing through that door with you. You seeing any of them other fine ladies waltzing in there with their mammies? Door I use is around back.”

  She was right, of course. While many of the ladies had brought along one or two of their maidservants, and some had even brought their Negro seamstresses to help, the slaves gathered at the rear servants’ entrance, not the grand foyer.

  The inequity added to my feelings of guilt. I already felt bad for asking Tessie to come and ashamed for being here myself. By helping the Confederacy, it was as though I was helping Tessie and the others remain slaves. I had criticized Jonathan for taking Josiah with him, but wasn’t I doing the same thing?

  Jeremiah, the St. Johns’ porter, opened my carriage door and stood waiting to help me down. A half-dozen carriages stood in line behind mine. “Go on, honey,” Tessie whispered. “I see you inside.”

  I buried my feelings behind a false smile and walked into the house with the other women. In their brightly colored outfits and billowing hoop skirts, they reminded me of a bouquet of multicolored asters and chrysanthemums. You would never guess from this fashionable display of summer dresses and flowered hats that the price of cloth had skyrocketed due to the blockade, or that new straw hats could scarcely be found at any price. Sally wore the most expensive dress of all. Made from plaid silk, it required several more yards of material than a plain fabric would because the plaid on all the seams had to be matched. I had the urge to shake her—to shake all of these women. Was I the only one who saw that our lives would never be the same?

  Mrs. St. John herded us all into her huge drawing room, and at least the changes in our lives were more evident in there. The furniture had been rearranged, transforming the room into a workshop, with every belle and society matron transformed into a seamstress. Those who owned sewing machines had brought them, and the clatter and whir of treadles and gears served as background music.

  Nearly every woman, including myself, wore a chatelaine fastened to her waist, carrying her needles, scissors, thimble, and measuring tape. But few of us had ever done more than simple embroidery work, hemstitching, or needlepoint, and our delicate fingers weren’t accustomed to pushing needles through heavy wool uniform jackets and trousers. I began with the relatively easy task of binding buttonholes
and sewing on buttons, but even so, my fingertips were roughened by dozens of pinpricks by the end of the afternoon. In the weeks ahead, our hands as well as our fingers would be stiff and bleeding from stitching through heavy sailcloth as we sewed tents and overcoats.

  The women talked of nothing but war, thought of nothing but war. Every one of them had a loved one in uniform—a husband, a father, a brother, a son, a sweetheart. As I listened to them talking about how difficult it was to be separated from them, I glanced down at Tessie, sewing quietly on a stool beside me. She had suffered this pain nearly all her life—separated from her parents, from her husband, from her son. What right did all of us privileged ladies have to discuss our current experiences as if they were unique when beside us sat slave women who had known this aching sorrow for many years?

  “I admit that I’ve led a spoiled life,” Sally said, entering the conversation. “I never would have dreamed that I’d be doing such a menial task as this. But I must say, I’m proud to do it. If our men are willing to do their part, then I’m willing to do mine.”

  “That’s right,” the woman beside her said. “If we want freedom for our country, then we have to fight for it. We can’t expect someone else to do it.”

  “All of the noble women of Virginia stood beside their men in 1776,” an elderly dowager said. “I’m proud to say that their selfsacrificing spirit has been passed down to us.”

  “We may be called upon to sacrifice more than our time or our pride in the months ahead,” another woman added somberly. “I know what an enormous sacrifice it must be for you, Mrs. Randolph, to send all five of your sons off to fight.”

  Mrs. Randolph quickly blotted a tear with her hankie. “My boys are not cowards, so I must be brave, as well. I sent them off gladly. Their country needs them.”

  I had hated to watch Charles go; I couldn’t imagine watching a beloved son, a child I’d nurtured from infancy, march off to war. For a second time I thought of Tessie, of how she must have felt to watch her son being taken away against her will.

  Then, like a changeable wind, the conversation turned to another aspect of the war, our first victory. Mrs. Goode told us about the letter her son had sent describing last month’s skirmish at Big Bethel Church.

  “The Yankees sent troops up the peninsula from Fort Monroe— more than four thousand of them—thinking they could drive us out of our fortifications and move inland. But my Daniel said our boys fought like wildcats. We drove them back, that’s for certain, even though our boys were outnumbered nearly four-toone.” The society ladies of Richmond gave a modest little cheer.

  “God’s favor is always on the side of justice,” Sally said. “Even if we’re outnumbered, heaven will protect the Southern cause.”

  Her words brought an even more enthusiastic response. When the applause died away, Mrs. Goode said, “It also shows that our enemies are cowards who will run at the first chance.”

  “That’s right,” everyone agreed. “Billy Yank won’t fight.”

  “Johnny Reb will, though. It’s our homeland that’s being invaded.”

  When the room quieted again, Mrs. Randolph asked, “Have any of you been downtown yet, to see all the Yankee banners we captured at Big Bethel? They’re on display in the store windows.”

  “I’ve seen them,” Mrs. Taylor bragged. “And I also saw them parading the prisoners right down Main Street. I got my first good look at a real live Yankee.”

  “Frankly, I’d much rather see a dead one,” Mrs. Goode replied. Everyone laughed except me. I had been picturing Robert in his U.S. Army uniform.

  As the afternoon wore on, the drawing room grew increasingly hot, the scratchy wool uniforms like blankets in our laps. Even with all the windows and double doors thrown open, we perspired in the heat, our needles slipping through our sweaty fingers. The St. Johns had equipped several of their slaves with palmetto fans and stationed them around the room to keep the air circulating. But when the young Negro girl standing behind Sally and me grew weary and paused to rest, Sally turned around with a frown and pinched her leg.

  “Sally! That’s no way to treat a child,” I admonished her without even thinking.

  “But it’s hot in here,” Sally said, pouting. “She’s supposed to keep fanning.”

  “She’s been fanning us for nearly an hour.” I kept my voice low, hoping no one else would hear me. “Your arms would be tired, too, by now. And she’s just a little girl.”

  “Caroline, she’s a slave.”

  “That’s no excuse to treat a person unkindly.”

  At first Sally seemed annoyed that I had interfered. But when she glanced over her shoulder again, she saw that the girl had tears in her eyes. “Sit down and rest a minute, Lucy,” she said with a sigh. Then Sally turned to me. “I don’t even realize I’m being unkind. I hardly think of them as persons. I’m sorry, but I was raised not to see them.”

  Now it was my turn to be ashamed of my behavior. Admonishing my hostess had been rude. I mumbled an apology of my own and tried to disappear into the sofa cushions.

  By now the discussion had turned to another topic—the traitorous Yankee sympathizers who lived in western Virginia. Unwilling to secede from the Union, they had seceded from Virginia instead, forming a new state.

  “There are probably Northern sympathizers living right here in Richmond, too,” Mrs. Taylor said. “If we’re not careful, they’ll be stabbing us in the back and passing secret information to the Union government.”

  “That’s why the city council passed a new ordinance this week,” Mrs. Goode said. Her husband served on the council, so she prided herself on being among the first to know the council’s business.

  “What ordinance is that, dear?” Mrs. St. John asked.

  “It’s called the ‘Suspicious Persons Law’ or something like that. We’re supposed to be on the lookout for people who express Northern sentiments or opinions. If we discover such a person— man or woman—it’s our duty to inform the mayor immediately so he can have them arrested.”

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Randolph said. “Isn’t it frightening to think such traitorous persons could be living right here among us and we wouldn’t even know it?”

  Mrs. Taylor gave her a withering look. “Don’t be naïve, Clara. Any fool could tell.”

  “How? How could they tell?”

  “Why, just open your eyes and look around. Notice who isn’t cheering along with everyone else. Pay attention to the person whose enthusiasm seems a little . . . false.”

  I felt my cheeks begin to burn. I had not been among those who’d cheered the Confederate victory at Big Bethel a few moments ago or the capture of Yankee prisoners. But I wanted to run from the room when Mrs. Taylor’s daughter Helen spoke next.

  “Another way to tell is if they’re Negro-lovers.”

  The room went momentarily silent. My heart thumped against my corset stays. Helen Taylor had fancied herself Charles’ sweetheart before I came along. Neither she nor her mother had ever forgiven me for “stealing” Charles away. Too late, I realized that Helen was sitting close enough to Sally and me to have observed our conversation over the little slave girl.

  “Traitors are always Negro-lovers,” Helen repeated. She and her mother exchanged looks. My instincts urged me to run, to plead dizziness or nausea or some other excuse and leave while I still had a chance, but I didn’t know how to escape the tightly packed circle of women without causing a scene. When Helen directed her next question to me, I knew it was too late to run.

  “I understand that you once lived up north, isn’t that right, Caroline? And don’t you still have relatives living up there? I suppose they’re all fighting for the Yankees now.”

  “None of them are fighting,” I said shakily. “My aunt and uncle have two daughters.”

  “I’ve heard that Philadelphia is a hotbed of abolition activity,” Mrs. Taylor added. “I pity you for having to live in such a place. Poor girl—I’ll bet they tried to fill your head with their anti-sla
very ideas.” All of the ladies had stopped sewing, waiting, as women will, for a fresh scrap of news to feed the gossip fires. I had to say something.

  “My aunt Martha is a native Virginian.” My voice sounded tiny, apologetic. “She was born and raised right here in Richmond.”

  “Well, how do you feel about the slavery issue?” Helen asked. “Do you agree with the Yankees that it’s an evil institution?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. I was a coward. I had returned from Philadelphia determined to spend myself on behalf of the oppressed and to let my light rise in the darkness as the Scripture urged me to do. I had once prided myself on being outspoken with Charles and helping to alter his way of thinking. But now I remained silent. Sally did, too, even though she knew the truth.

  “Come now, speak up, Caroline,” Mrs. Taylor said. “You must have an opinion.”

  As I vainly searched for a way out of the trap, Mrs. St. John suddenly cleared her throat as if about to make an important announcement. “Ladies,” she said, her voice dripping gentility like honey, “perhaps you’ve forgotten that Caroline was forced to move to Philadelphia after her mother’s tragic death. And I think you’ve also failed to notice that the dear girl is now sitting here among us, pricking her own fingers raw to help the cause. But maybe I should also remind you that she is engaged to my son, Charles. If her loyalty is in question, then so is his.”

  Mrs. St. John finished her little speech with a prim smile, then turned to one of her maidservants. “You may serve us our tea now, Katy.”

  When the grueling afternoon finally ended, I returned home, ashamed. Today was only the sewing society’s first meeting; I would have to return tomorrow and the next day, working several times a week until the shortage of uniforms eased. I would have to face the same women, the same questions. Mrs. Taylor’s suspicions would be confirmed if I didn’t return to support the Southern cause. And I couldn’t lie to myself and vow to speak out bravely the next time. I would be just as cowardly tomorrow and the day after as I had been today.