Homeland

by Barbara Hambly

  Julia will not hear of leaving. She says we are perfectly safe here, and called me selfish for even thinking of it, said that I didn’t really mean it (she’s always told me that I don’t mean what I actually do mean), that I was just tired: How could I even think of exposing Tom, and poor Tommy and little Adam, to Yankee scorn and Yankee charity? When I pointed out that Tom had been a Unionist, she simply said, “How can you tell such a lie?” And then she cried, and clung to me, and made me promise I’d never leave her—and how can I leave her, Cora? Leave her alone here with a crippled husband, a two-year-old, and a newborn baby? She can’t forage, she can’t chop wood—and she never will leave, while there’s the slightest hope of Emory coming back.

  So I promised. But we can’t stay here. I can’t stay here. I remember what you wrote to me, back when Julia and Henriette were trying to make me stay on at Bayberry as housekeeper, and I wanted to go to the Nashville Academy. You told me that I had my own way to make, my own road to find. That if I were a boy and not a girl, no one would think twice about my right to make that decision. Tomorrow I must—I have to—write to Eliza. The only clean paper I know about, now, is the title pages and back signatures of Justin’s books, up in Skull Cave. I haven’t touched that paper, all this time. But it’s there, and I think Justin would understand. I will go up the mountain, and write my letter, and find a way to sneak into town to send it.

  It’s cowardly, and wicked, but I have to at least write to her, and see what can be done. I can’t go on like this.

  MONDAY, APRIL 18

  [Saturday Lyle Gilkerson and his boys—heavily crossed out]

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  To

  Susanna Ashford, Bayberry Run Plantation,

  Greene County, Tennessee

  Please forward

  TUESDAY, APRIL 26, 1864

  Dearest Susanna,

  From the newspapers I understand that the forces of the Confederacy have withdrawn from eastern Tennessee. Eliza Johnson writes me from Nashville, that the section is still in great turmoil: thus it is more than possible, that my previous letters to you have gone astray. I will write, then, and continue to write, in the hopes that either matters will become more settled, or that someone at or near Bayberry Run will eventually forward one into your hands. I do not ask for a resumption of our old friendship, though it was very dear to me. I understand that the horrors that have overtaken your homeland may have rendered it impossible for you to ever regard any Northerner as anything but a foe. Yet, if you would but send a brief note, that you and your family are alive and well, I would be most grateful.

  I and my daughter both are well. I have been, through most of the past year, much occupied with my Mother, whose brain was injured in a fall. It is sometimes hard to keep cheerful, the more so because of the estrangement between my brother Ollie’s widow and myself. I look forward to Papa’s return, for the farm is much dilapidated, and the friend upon whom I much relied both for labor and for comradeship quite unexpectedly enlisted in the Army. As a result of this, it was not until last week that my Uncle Mordacai was able to help me remove the boughs that banked the house. It is a relief to undertake Spring Cleaning, even in the company with a sister-in-law who will not deign to speak to a “Copperhead.” Owing to the scarcity of men on the island—for a third of our men have entered either the Army or the Navy, and of those that are left, nearly fifty are in hiding from the draft—it is not even possible now to hire help. Peggie and I can not even do laundry, until my Uncle can next come and cut wood to heat the water. Without the discarded spruce-boughs, we would have been hard-put to heat the house on these sharp spring nights, or to cook.

  Winter is hard in Maine, and its nights long. I feel that, like a camel, I have drunk deep of all those books that Justin sent me for safe-keeping, re-reading them twice and sometimes thrice, to carry me through a summer of days when I shall fall into bed too weary to do more than blow out my candle.

  Please, if you get this, let me know at least where you are, and in what circumstances.

  Until then, always your friend,

  Cora

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  To

  Susanna Ashford

  [not sent]

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 27, 1864

  Dearest,

  Why do I feel that when I put this letter into that magic post-box among Justin’s books in the attic, it will fly to you in some Gothic tower overlooking the roofs of Paris? I suppose it is an image I prefer to the one of you at Bayberry Run, cursing my letter as you put it into the stove. Or the one of your sister, or your brother Regal, doing so because you have been dead for a year. The other thing I have never encountered in any book—along with women who must entirely make their own way in the world, without assistance from even the tiniest annuities, who do not become either women of the town, or comic viragos—is a precise definition of where the line lies, between hope and insanity.

  Are these letters to you insane? Either the one I wrote yesterday, to a house that may be a pile of rubble—or this today, to the friend who once sent me sketches that made me laugh, and words that let me know that I was neither alone nor mad: the friend who may not exist anymore.

  Why did I never write—even in fancy—to Emory? Because I knew of no way to begin, that did not sound like reproach? Is that why you do not reply to me, dearest Susie?

  Will I write to Will? What could I possibly say?

  SUNDAY, MAY 1

  Dear Susanna,

  My apologies for the above. I think that looking after Mother has left me worn down, as if my nerves had been sandpapered. She is not the woman that I so deeply loved, yet daily, the hands that I hold are that woman’s hands; the voice that asks who that little girl is, is the voice I remember. I am aware of feeling grief for her, like a well of darkness miles deep, but so constant is the need to care for her, and to support Papa’s spirits, that I must train myself never to look into that well. Even in David Copperfield, I do not find this depth: this state of keeping the door firmly closed upon deep and genuine agony, because there is nothing else that can be done. All day I am busy and cheerful, and then without warning a single turn of phrase in a poem will eviscerate me with sorrow: I wept until I thought I should be ill, upon the words, “He said, ‘She hath a lovely face.’”

  For Papa it is worse. I would rather have remained here today, than accompany them to church, for I have been unwell. But in those moments of panic that Mother sometimes experiences, or with the sudden onset of one of her headaches, neither Papa nor Peggie can deal with her. And as she drifts farther from herself, Mother treasures more closely those things that she does remember: Papa, the church, and her friends. So we went, and so Elinor was able to come to me—the first words she has spoken to me in more than a year—and remark, that she had heard that Will Kydd had finally found the manhood in him to do his duty to his country.

  Forgive me for writing all this, my friend. I am still so sick with anger that I shake when I think of it. I know she would not have known of his enlistment, unless she had had something to do with it; unless she had found the means, to force him to it. And so my one friend on the island is gone, and I fear that it was I, who handed her the weapon that she used to drive him.

  Papa is calling from the summer kitchen, where the door stands open to the scent of the new-fledged woods and Peggie has set out the cold Sunday supper. We have always kept to the old New England habit, that it is as much a sin to cook on the Sabbath as it is to—for instance—write letters to one’s friends, be they real, or imagined, or somewhere in between. I will dress again in my cheerfulness, and go.

  Yours,

  C

  Mrs. Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  To

  Susanna Ashford

  [not sent]

  TUESDAY, MAY 10, 1864

  Dearest Susie,

  I have prayed that you are not in the turmoil and horror of Tennessee. Now I take back those prayers. Better there, than
in Virginia now.

  Grant’s army, a hundred and twenty thousand men, the papers say: eighteen thousand of them killed, wounded, or simply lost in the wilderness around Richmond, in two days of horrifying combat. Is your father there? Did you flee there seeking refuge, you and Julia, and Julia’s child?

  Or did you go to Atlanta, towards which another destroying army is now on the march?

  Wherever you are, I know that you are in God’s care.

  Cora

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine To

  Susanna Ashford, Bayberry Run Plantation Greene County, Tennessee Please forward

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 25, 1864

  Dear Susanna,

  I write in the steady hope that one of my letters will reach you, though I understand from Eliza Johnson, that the east of the State is still in great turmoil. Knowing—as well as one can from the newspapers only—the dreadful conditions now current in much of the South, I ask no more than word that you are safe.

  Summer has come. Peggie takes her sewing—and her son—to Elinor’s house, and often does not return until suppertime or later. Well I understand her resentment of me last summer. Mother has taken to wandering away, which is both frightening and, I am ashamed to say, vexing, as she will leave the butter half-formed in the churn, or the egg-basket lying on the ground. At least Peggie will remain to help on wash-days, though she left me today to do the ironing, which has left me—as you can tell from my handwriting—shaky and tired.

  LATER

  An interruption, to see to Mother. It is late now, and the house is profoundly still, as if cut loose from the earth and adrift in darkness. I have only just finished the butter, washed dasher and churn and paddles, and the mending all yet to do. It is my fault. I have been a little ill, and the medicine I took, though it promised that “no harm can follow its use, even when taken by the most delicate invalid,” proved to be, I think, mostly quinine. I will be better by Saturday, when Papa returns.

  They say the War must soon be over, one way or the other, but I find myself incapable of believing anything anyone “says,” or indeed of thinking ahead at all. Tonight it seems that there is nothing but tomorrow only, and no world beyond what I can see from this table where I sit: to see that the animals are fed, that my daughter’s hair is combed, and Mother is taken care of, as well as I can, for the time she has left. Time and events seem to have lost their meaning.

  Please be assured that not a night has passed that I have not prayed for you and yours.

  Always,

  Cora

  Susanna Ashford, Bayberry Run Plantation

  Greene County, Tennessee

  To

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  FRIDAY, JUNE 17, 1864

  My dearest Cora,

  What a blessing to hear from you, my friend! What joy, to know that you, are well! Both your letters came today! If there is anything I can do to help you, at this distance, and in our circumstances, just name it, and it is yours.

  After being shelled forty-seven days by the Federals at Vicksburg, I can no longer claim to be the loyal subject of the Union that once I was. (Are women citizens rather than subjects? We don’t vote.) But, here in Tennessee, there are still as many Lincolnites as there are Seceshes, and we have been robbed and stripped by both armies turn and turn about, with a perfect lack of distinction, so that as the English say, “You pays your money (only nobody has any) and takes your choice.” I am still a Spy in Enemy Territory, for Julia is as loyal to the Confederacy as ever, and I will have to hide your precious letters under the floor-boards. What joy to have the opportunity to do so! Tho’ the Federals officially hold this section, Secesh militia still occupies the ground floor of Bayberry, and supplies us, when in residence, with whatever they can steal from the Federals at Greeneville, a circumstance which has continued for so long that it is beginning not to seem odd anymore, like you living in darkness for six months out of the year.

  I am more sorry than I can say, to hear that you have been ill, especially as you have lost the friend who gave you comfort. I believe that I have recently had your illness myself, owing to a mishap that befell me in April, from going alone on the mountain. I pray you are recovered, not only in body but in spirits. Please believe me when I say that you did what was best, for both your Mother and your daughter would have suffered, had your condition been allowed to continue.

  I may not often be able to write, and my replies to you may be delayed. It is a long way into town, but please write me care of General Delivery in Greeneville, for I fear that Julia or Lyle Gilkerson—the head of the militia here—would destroy any letter to me from the North. It is good beyond words to hear from you again. I will reply when and as I can.

  Always your friend,

  Susanna

  Susanna Ashford, Bayberry Run Plantation

  Greene County, Tennessee

  To

  Cora Poole

  [not sent]

  FRIDAY, JUNE 17, 1864

  Dearest friend,

  I have re-read my letter to you twice, and pray it is cheerful enough to raise your spirits. You sound so weary, and I know perfectly well what kind of medicine consists almost entirely of quinine and claims that “no harm can follow its use …” etc. etc. It’s exactly what Mrs. P in the Union camp gave me, to “bring on my periods” again after Lyle and his men caught me on the mountain. What other medicine would you be careful to take only after your Papa left for the week? Why half-kill yourself, to conceal its effects from Peggie, ironing and churning butter, when your hand shakes so badly that your writing can barely be made out? I am sorry, so sorry, my dearest girl, that you are in the position, to require such a terrible step.

  “If there is anything I can do to help you, just name it …” Except tell the truth, my dearest friend.

  Emory is back in the district. He shakes his head like a disappointed brother over my “affection,” as he calls it, for Lyle, but he is careful not to ask about it. The last thing he and his militia need is a war with Lyle’s bush-whackers. And from the first day that Lyle rode up to the house—with his men—after the rape, Julia has believed Lyle’s story of “guarding those who’re loyal to the South.” Like Emory, Julia finds her life easier, with Lyle on good terms with us. Sometimes I still think about killing him, but I have only to look at that stinking cousin of his who’d inherit his command, to put that idea away.

  I spoke of you to Julia, just after your April letter came, and she sneered, “What does she know about hardship?” and told me to tear it up. I said I wanted to keep it to draw on, though in fact I don’t draw anymore. There seems no reason to do so.

  I pray you’ll write again soon.

  Your lying friend,

  Susanna

  Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine

  To

  Susanna Ashford

  c/o General Delivery, Greeneville,

  Tennessee

  TUESDAY, JULY 5, 1864

  Dearest Friend,

  You are alive! When I saw your handwriting on the envelope, I can not describe what I felt. So good to know that you are well—that, first of all. I do not know whether that joy was greater, or only just slightly less, than knowing that you will write again when you can. Thank you, and bless you.

  Your comfort and cheer came at a good time. The season of preserving and pickling, boiling and brining, is at its height. Papa does what he can, chopping firewood and keeping the stove fed, and I live in hourly terror that he will sever his own hand in the process, or burn down the house. The anniversary of my poor brother’s death has thrown Peggie into a deeper darkness of anger and resentment, and even her help detracts from rather than assists the process: I pray God to remove my anger and resentment towards her. Why were we not all created with mild and forgiving temperaments?

  Her anxiety—and mine—exacerbated by the news of the War, bloody carnage both in Virginia and in Georgia, where last week thousands of men were slain at Kennesaw Mountain before Atlanta.


  WEDNESDAY, JULY 6

  Cucumbers and peaches, although with sugar costing fifty cents a pound!—when Lufkin’s store has it at all—most of the peaches, instead of being preserved as usual, I slice and dry for “leather.” I slice my fingers, as well, and my wrist is so stiff that I can barely wield the pen. Silence has fallen on the house again, save for the crickets, and the whining of mosquitoes around the candle. I should go to bed, for we begin to harvest the corn tomorrow, yet, I greedily seek the pleasure of your almost-company.

  I am horrified to learn that you were indeed at Vicksburg through the siege. Will you understand if I say, I am glad that at the time I was under the comforting delusion that your Aunt Sally had removed you elsewhere? The newspapers claim that the civilian casualties there were relatively slight—is this in fact the case? I am glad that you—and Julia—survived.

  Thank you—bless you—my dearest, for your kind words about my illness. Indeed, my foremost concern was for Mother, and Mercy. And oh, my friend, I am so sorry, if I read aright the circumstances of your own illness. There is literally nothing that I can think of to write, that would fully express my concern—or be of any help. Are you well now? I pray that your family was able to support you in this, at least. Thank you for your understanding—and for understanding that Mother and Mercy were not the only reasons, for my decision.