by Irene Hunt
He paused, and Jethro understood. No perfect pearl. The editor had been right.
“I wanted to see him so much, Shad. Pa had said that maybe after the war was over I could go to Washington, maybe I could shake his hand.”
Shadrach could only nod. He placed his hand for a second on Jethro’s shoulder.
“Did you see him, Shad, more than the one time you wrote me about—the time he was ridin’ with Grant?”
“We saw him that night, Jeth, the night of the fourteenth. Jenny and I had gone for a stroll after supper, and as we walked along we noticed that a little crowd had congregated, and then down the street we saw the President’s carriage. There was some cheering, and he looked out at us and smiled. His face looked very old, but it was a happy face that night, I feel sure of that.” Shadrach paused as if he were not sure he should say any more, but finally he continued. “We were awakened about eleven o’clock by noise and shouting in the street; we could understand only a few words of the shouting, but they were enough to make us dress and hurry outside. There was a soldier standing on the corner; he was crying, but he told us.”
The distant horizon blurred a little, and the birds’ trills and the soft golden blanket of sunlight over the fields and orchards seemed out of place—like laughter in a church.
Shadrach was speaking again. “I could take you to Springfield, Jeth. Mr. Milton and I talked about it last night; he doubts if it is best. There is no Abraham Lincoln for you to see, you know—only the empty shell. We think it would only hurt you.”
“I reckon you’re right.”
“You’re going to have help with the work this summer.” Shadrach strove to bring lightness into his voice. “Jenny is going to help your mother; I’ll go out to the fields with you. And John will be here in a few weeks. We saw him just a while before we left Washington.”
Jethro nodded, while a crowd of thoughts raced through his mind. “Will you teach the school again next winter, Shad?”
Shadrach’s eyes lighted at the question. “That is something I should let Jenny tell you, Jeth, but I can’t. I’m going back to college. My uncle can get me a teaching position while I finish my work. And Jenny and I have decided that you’re going with us. You’ve plowed long enough, Jeth; you’re going to study now.”
Jethro’s hand found a sharp stick, and he dug it into the earth, twisted it around and around, and stared at the hole he had made as if it had some meaning.
“It would be the finest thing on earth for me, but what about my folks? My ma has lost three little boys and Mary—and Tom—and Bill. I’m the youngest; they depend on me.”
“You are their pride, Jeth. Those two want the very best for you. And they won’t be alone. Eb will be back, and there’s always John. He wants you to get an education and then later to help his own boys along the same road. It’s going to work out, Jeth; you’ll see.”
Jethro smiled slowly. “Don’t build me up too much, Shad,” he said after a while. “Somethin’s like to break inside of me.”
At that moment a voice sounded across the field from somewhere near the cabin. “Shad—Jeth—you two boys better come in now. I’m gettin’ real vexed with both of you.”
“Yes, let’s go see Jenny,” Jethro said huskily.
They walked together across the bridge that spanned Crooked Creek and through the half-acre south of the cabin, where four years before Jethro had helped his mother plant potatoes on a day when the news of Sumter had not quite reached the prairies.
A little distance up the road, past the hedge of lilacs and under the silver poplars of the dooryard, Jenny stood at the gate, waiting for them. She seemed taller in her city clothes, thinner and more delicate. But she was the same Jenny. Her arms were held out to Jethro, and for that moment when he ran toward her, all the shadows were lifted from the April morning.
Author’s Note
The accounts of battles and the historical background of ACROSS FIVE APRILS are drawn from research in many books, periodicals and other sources of information. As to the story of the Creightons, there is hardly a page in this book on which a situation has not been suggested by family letters and records and by the stories told by my grandfather. He was a boy of nine at the beginning of the Civil War, and by the time his grandchildren knew him, most of his days were spent in reliving the war years, in which the great struggle sharply touched him and every member of his family. He was a good storyteller, and he gave his listeners a wealth of detail that enabled us to share with him the anxiety and sorrow of the times as well as the moments of happiness in a closely knit family.
There are many questions that I should like to have asked my grandfather as I wrote ACROSS FIVE APRILS. For example, I was unable to name the exact date of the story’s opening because I could not determine how long it would have taken for news of the firing on Fort Sumter to reach the farm in southern Illinois. Again, I was not sure just how bread was baked in the ashes of the fireplace; I only knew that as Grandfather remembered it, that bread was the “sweetest” he ever tasted. Then there is the little song that I have called “Seven Stars” for lack of any known title. I have heard my grandfather sing it many times, and I sing it myself, yet the words never have any real meaning for me. I have never seen the words written, so I have spelled them as they sounded. I must admit I do not know what the “rambeau” is. I wish I knew what the words really meant; I think, however, that even Grandfather would have been unable to tell me.
It would indeed be good to have been able to ask the many questions that came to mind during the days of research and writing; it would be better still to be able to thank my grandfather for the memories he shared with us. This book is dedicated to his great-grandchildren, but the story is his.
I. H.
1 See note on page 211.