The Cellar

by Curtis Richardson

  As much as most of the soldiers detested the “military necessity” of separating the locals from their foodstuffs, an army had to eat, and it was beginning to be seen that the sufferings of the general population might lead to their losing the will to continue the conflict. General Sherman’s quote about war being hell was being brought home to the citizens of northern Mississippi. The Home Guard was fighting back and retaliating for what they saw as wanton theft.

  As abhorrent as the “military necessity” of raiding the larders of civilians was, the wholesale slaughter of his fellow human beings was a “military necessity” that had left Ike far more sickened and scarred. He knew that men who he had known and loved had died in this woman’s door yard, the question that hung over them was how many and which ones.

  After staring at Ike for a few moments the woman called over her shoulder to an unseen presence. “Marcus, get him something to eat, I think mush will do for now.”

  “Yas’m.” came a deep voice from behind the woman. Footsteps followed and a door creaked open letting moonlight in to illuminate the wooden steps going up to the cellar door. The massive shape of a man blocked out most of the light and then the door was closed, shutting out all but the light from the lamp.

  The silence was disquieting to Ike as the woman resumed her stare.

  “Ma’am?” Ike started.

  “Yes.” She replied.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days. It was the day before yesterday that you and your companions attempted to pillage my farm.”

  “Two days…” Ike rasped, trying to think of what day it had been and what time of day he had last been conscious. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “It should be around 4 O’clock in the morning, I thought I heard you stirring around 3 O’clock and came down here to see about you and I’m sure it has been at least an hour.” As if in confirmation Ike heard a clock somewhere above striking four times.

  “The home guard knew you were coming this way and lay in wait. For my part, I was against bloodshed in my own dooryard, but I had little choice, and I did not fancy having all my foodstuffs pilfered and I had no idea what other depredations might follow.”

  Ike was sure of and embarrassed for the “depredations” that the woman was referring to. There had been accusations of rape and looting by Union soldiers not long ago. There had been several men in the division flogged for looting and one was hanged for assaulting a woman. It was suddenly important to Ike for the woman to know that his own squad had only been interested in finding something to eat.

  “I…I’m sorry, Ma’am.” Ike wheezed. “We were starving.” He realized how dry his mouth was. As if the woman had read his thoughts she handed him a cup.

  “Drink this. It’s water and a little brandy. Don’t drink it too fast or it will come back up and I might not be inclined to give you more.”

  He took the cup and obediently sipped with care. The water cooled his parched mouth and the liquor warmed him deeper inside.

  “Thank you, Ma’am.” Ike replied between cautious sips. “I’m normally a Teetotaler, but that seems to have a medicinal effect.” Ike lied. The warmth of the brandy was not an alien presence in any sense, but he instinctively implied otherwise.

  “A little wine for thy stomach’s sake and thine often infirmities.” The woman said with no hesitation.

  “1st Timothy 5:23.” Ike responded, not too quickly he hoped. He knew his Bible well, but not as well as his response might have implied. He had used this verse often to justify his bouts of drinking to Emma and to himself. His “infirmities” were usually not too often, but had put a strain on his marriage.

  The woman’s expression remained as before, not betraying her reaction to his statement as he finished off the liquid in the cup.

  The door creaked open again and broke the silence that followed Ike’s scriptural exposition. Marcus placed a tray next to Ike’s pallet on the floor and helped him sit up, turning him so that he could sit with his back propped against the stone wall and hold the warm bowl on his lap.

  Ike had never been fond of mush. His family had endured some hard times in his very early youth and there was sometimes little else to eat and the memory of his childhood poverty usually clung to the humble fare. This mush, however assumed a flavor and texture that was marvelous. The splendor of it was partly because it had been so long since Ike had eaten anything and partly that this normally bland fare was accompanied by substances that had been missing from Ike’s diet for weeks. There was butter in an exuberant quantity, and salt which had been missing from his diet for days and a sweetness that he thought was probably honey.

  He forced himself to eat slowly and found it hard not to moan in ecstasy. Ike ate every last bite and resisted the urge to scrape out the last lingering smear on the inside of the bowl with his grimy fingers and lick the crockery and fingers clean.

  “Thank you.” He said, quietly looking first at the woman and then at Marcus. The man was an enormous brown mountain.

  Ike’s experience with the ebony race was recent. The first Negroes he had ever seen had been the field slaves who had cheered and sang to them as they had marched west from Corinth after Beauregard’s stealthy retreat. These people were something new and exotic to most of the men in the ranks. Free blacks had been banned from Illinois several years ago and slavery had long been forbidden.

  The soldiers had laughed at the antics of the children as they brought buckets of cool water. Johnny openly ogled a young slave woman whose worn dress was so thin as to reveal enticing details of her shapely figure to a young man whose lust had become legendary. “Eyes forward, jackass!” Sarge had barked as Johnny marched forward with his head twisted nearly backward for one last leer. As more and more slaves walked away from their lives of servitude and attached themselves to the Union Army, Johnny managed a few attachments of his own.

  The man looking down at Ike seemed to be old, but Ike could not place just how old he might have been. Marcus looked solid and strong, only the wrinkles in his otherwise flawless skin and the trace of white in the wool over his ears betrayed long years. The way that Marcus looked at him was not unkind but it made Ike uncomfortable. His gaze was almost as inscrutable as that of the woman but something in the way the towering vassal looked at Ike seemed to convey pity.

  Marcus knelt and took the bowl and spoon gently from Ike’s hands, he then handed the soldier a damp cloth and a bowl of water. Ike bathed his face and hands and relished the feel of being even a little clean after weeks of living in filth. He returned the now grimy cloth to Marcus and tried to convey his gratitude with a smile that was not returned.

  “That is all for now, Marcus.” The woman said.

  “Yas’m.” Marcus rumbled and turned to leave. Ike noted that the big man could just barely stand erect in the cellar. The nappy hair brushed the beams in places as he took his leave.

  “Do you feel better?” the woman asked after Marcus had closed the door.

  In spite of the pain in his leg and head, Ike was feeling almost giddy, his first inclination had been to respond “Yas’m.” but he thought better of it.

  “Yes Ma’am, I thank you kindly. I don’t know what I can do to repay your kindness, but I intend to try as soon as I can.” Ike said as earnestly as he could. His gratitude was sincere, the food and drink had done much to restore him.

  “We will talk more tomorrow. For now you should sleep.” She said, standing and picking up the lamp. She walked toward the door and as she reached the first step it opened outward for her. Marcus held it open as his mistress daintily ascended the steps. When the woman had cleared the door it shut again leaving Ike once more in total darkness.

  He lay back down and adjusted himself on his blanket. The food and the small amount of brandy, which Ike believed might have been the best he had ever tasted, had left him feeling satisfied and for now he felt safe. He slept soundly and had no more dreams that he could recall.

  A thin line
of light was visible along the edge of the door on the hinged side when he awoke. A single ray came through a knot hole near the center of the door and painted a spot on the floor pale yellow, helping to illuminate Ike’s new abode. As his eyes adjusted he carefully turned his head from side to side to allow him to take stock of his surroundings. The stonework of the cellar was finely done, the joints were mortared with extreme care and the walls were nearly perfect. The flagstone floor was level and relatively smooth. Above him were heavy timber beams that he assumed supported a house. He pictured the house as he had seen it before the ambush. Something about the appearance of the building had spoken to him even as he was reeling from the heat in the yard. The house looked like something of substance and permanence. It actually had a recent coat of paint unlike most of the houses they had seen in the south. He thought of Emma and of how she would love a house like this. He tried to remember their own home and could only remember small details of it and that it had somehow been a disappointment to them. He thought of how he would love to be able to give his wife a home like this. The reality of sleeping in such a permanent structure, even in its cellar, struck him as something amazing. After months of sleeping in the open in all kinds of weather surrounded by snoring, belching, and farting soldiers the quiet coolness of this cellar was agreeable.

  He sat up carefully to see if his head would swim as it had previously. It did, but it was not as badly as before. He sat with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out before him and noted how neatly the splint had been applied to his left leg. Army doctors would have not done nearly as well in immobilizing the leg, but Army doctors were usually operating with the sound of cannons, small arms, and the screaming of dying men assailing their ears.

  The chair and small table remained and Ike had an urge to sit in the chair. He couldn’t remember the last time he has sat on an actual chair. Hard tack crates, chunks of firewood, and rocks had served as furniture for the last two years when he could even find such amenities. Often the best one could do was to sit cross legged on the ground. Real furniture seemed like something remarkable. Standing up made him light headed for a moment but he braced his hands against the wall until the feeling passed and hobbled over to occupy the seat where the woman had watched him……she had sat there in the dark for a full hour. Why had she bothered? The chair felt good, it made Ike feel more human to be sitting on something actually made for that purpose.

  He jumped at what seemed like the sound of the echoing laughter that he had heard before, he looked around and listened to see if he could discern where it had come from, he could hear nothing from the outside and the sound seemed to have been too faint to have come from his new abode. The only thing he heard for certain was the clock striking eight from somewhere above. As he strained to hear where the laughter might have come from another matter arose to distract him.

  It came to Ike that he couldn’t remember having emptied his bladder in nearly three days and the urge was becoming pressing. He wondered if he had wet his uniform, but it was so sweat soaked and filthy that it would have been hard to determine. Dehydration had made passing water less of an issue until now. He was wondering if there was a corner in the cellar that would be any more acceptable than another when the door creaked open and Marcus entered carrying an enameled chamber pot and a crutch.

  “Missy say you prob’ly be needin’ this ‘bout now.” Marcus said, lifting the chamber pot.

  “She must be a wise woman, Marcus, I am about to explode.” Ike said, hoping to get a smile out of the taciturn giant who was helping him to his feet. Getting no reaction, Ike finished his business, marveling at how good it felt to empty his bladder. In civilian life he would have had a hard time voiding himself with someone else watching, but two years of passing water with so many others in attendance had rid him of that problem. He was usually glad to finish without someone else wetting down his shoes.

  “Made that crutch fo’ one of Missy’s boys when he fell off’n a hoss and broke his leg a few years back.” Marcus said. Something about his manner made Ike think that he was saddened by the recollection. The crutch was made of oak, with a thick heavy head that fit nicely under Ike’s arm. The head had been carefully smoothed for the comfort of its user. The shaft was made from a tree limb nearly as thick as Ike’s wrist and the length was perfect for Ike’s build. The bark had been removed and it also had been shaved with obvious care.

  Marcus went back out, closing the door behind him and returned a few minutes later with the chamber pot, which had been emptied out and rinsed, hanging from his elbow by its bale. He also carried the tray with a water pitcher and bowl along with the drinking cup, another bowl of what he assumed was more mush also occupied the tray. The tray was placed on the table and the chamber pot was relegated to the corner of the cellar farthest from the door. Marcus gave a small bow and went back up the steps, closing the door behind him. Ike noticed the sound of something heavy being placed on the door after the big man’s exit.

  Ike attacked the bowl, which he discovered contained oatmeal with cream and a few fresh blackberries on top. This time he did lick the whole concern clean and let out a belch that felt wonderful. He washed it all down with water from the ewer and proceeded to wash himself as thoroughly as he could with the remaining water and a sliver of soap which smelled to him of lavender.

  The soap smell reminded him of Emma. He closed his eyes and pictured her sitting on their bed after a bath brushing out her hair. His loins began to quiver as his mind’s eye wandered over the delights of the young woman on his bed. Ike opened his eyes and shook his head to sweep the image of Emma from his consciousness; much more of this would just be torture.

  He tried to focus his mind on his situation. His squad had been ambushed while foraging at the woman’s house. He had accidentally avoided being killed by having gone for water to cool his fever and had been grazed by a bullet that was meant to kill him and fell and cracked his leg while seeking cover during the assault. The homeowner had taken him in and was caring for him and nursing him back to health. Why was she doing this?

  Something told him that the blow to his head had affected his mind. He remembered that he was married to Emma, but he could not remember her maiden name or their wedding. He remembered that he had a brother who had died at Shiloh, but could not remember his face or much of their childhood. The scars on his hands and arms looked like they might have been burns but he had no recollection of how they came to be. Most disturbing of all was the feeling that he wasn’t alone here and the snatches of laughter that seemed to echo in his mind. He sat still and listened for the voice that seemed to call his name from time to time but there was nothing. He finally managed to focus on the reality of where he was at present.

  Ike was formulating questions he wanted to ask when the door creaked open and he heard the woman’s voice. “Are you decent?”

  “Yes Ma’am.” Ike responded, instinctively standing up with the aid of the crutch as the woman appeared. His head swam again, but he managed to recover and remain upright.

  She came down the stairs followed by Marcus, who was carrying another chair. The second chair was placed facing the one already present. Marcus went back up the steps without speaking but did not close the door. The sunlight relieved the gloom and warmed Ike’s body and to a lesser extent his spirit.

  “Please sit down.” The woman said indicating the second chair. “Your break was not bad, but you need to keep that leg elevated for a while. You lost quite a bit of blood from your head wound and you will be weak for a few days”

  At that Marcus appeared again carrying a small footstool in one hand and another tray in the other. The footstool was placed in front of Ike and the tray replaced the previous one on the small table. Marcus went back up the steps with the first tray after gently placing Ike’s left foot on the stool.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she said, pouring from a china vessel into one of the cups. “There isn’t much real coffee in it. I have ex
tended my supply by adding chicory, but it is the best I have for now.”

  “Thank you, we’ve been out of coffee for days since the…… since our supply lines were interrupted.”

  He took the cup from her and waited as she poured her own. He waited for her to take the first sip out of a sense of decorum. He also had a nagging fear that she might try to drug him.

  The ersatz coffee was not bad. The chicory added an earthy flavor that was not unpleasant. Compared to the outlandishly strong brew that he was used to being served up by his Sergeant this coffee was excellent. She watched him as he sipped the dark liquid.

  “I suppose you have questions about what happened.”

  “Yes Ma’am I do. Particularly about my squad, did anyone survive except me?”

  “Your Sergeant and the big blond fellow who was at his elbow escaped unharmed. They were close to my house and weren’t fired on. Four of your men are buried next to my garden and several were apparently wounded but were able to get away. You were overlooked and indeed Marcus and I didn’t notice you until sometime later.”

  Ike was relieved to hear that Sarge and Billy were alive, he thought of asking her to describe the dead men, but grief, fear, and uncertainty made him hold his tongue for the moment.

  As if she had read his thoughts the woman said “I will describe the ones we buried, one was short with red hair, two had coal black hair and beards and looked like brothers, and there was a fellow with light brown hair and freckles who wore glasses. Marcus and I said a prayer over their graves and gave them what dignity we could. I am sorry, I suppose they were your friends.”

  “Yes, the little red haired fellow was my tent mate; he was a character…….” Ike said, holding back a sob. “I didn’t know the others as well, but we went through a lot together.” He had to close his eyes as he thought of Johnny lying buried close by. Johnny would no longer be teasing Sarge and his other comrades and singing and dancing with the contrabands. Johnny who had loved and enjoyed life to an extent Ike sometimes envied but couldn’t always approve of would never again go “a wenchin’” as he called his nocturnal forays. Ike imagined the young Negro women keening over the young man who had paid them so much attention.