Homeland
Page 27
The President clasped my hand, and said, We will find Emory, my child, if he is above the ground.
September is nearly gone. The War’s end in April seems tiny, like an event viewed far off through the wrong end of a telescope. Yet I remember as if it were yesterday, weeping for President Lincoln as I scalded the milk-churn and rolled pastry for a chicken pie. In my mind I see the summer kitchen, closed up now and shuttered tight, and the bare bedstead in Mother’s room, as it looked when I made the last walk through the place, to make sure nothing was forgotten, nothing left behind. Snow will cover it soon.
In the same way I see Elinor’s face, and Oliver, and poor little Nollie whom I would have liked to know better—and the loft in the barn, bare now of its beds of hay, where Will and I would meet one another. Enough time has passed that I can say, “He was good to me, and I was a fool in need of comfort.” All these things, like the Ghosts of Christmas Present fading into the echoes of Christmas past: a stage-set struck, living, as you said once, only in my memory. It is time to move on.
I remember what you wrote me once, that before every door that we ought not to pass through, there stands an angel with a flaming sword. Now that angel has stepped aside, and opened for me a door whose existence I never dreamed of. I stand on the threshold, looking at the road stretching ahead of me, and I only wait here for Emory to join me, so that we may undertake it, hand in hand.
I hope that your silent, beautiful woods are becoming a little safer, my friend; that the squirrels you catch are fat, and the berries plentiful, and your Pa comes home soon.
Wherever we may be,
Always your friend,
Cora
Susanna Ashford, Bayberry Run Plantation
Greene County, Tennessee
To
Cora Poole, The White House
Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, DC
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1865
Dear Cora,
I’m sending you the enclosed, not in the hope of forgiveness, but in the hope that you will at least understand that I did the best I could.
Emory is dead. I know this—I talked to the man who saw him shot, and who buried him. Don’t linger for him anymore, Cora. Don’t say No to the road that stretches before you, to the promises of what your new life will bring.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all this before. I’m sending you all the letters that I wrote to you during the War—or wrote to the Pretend-You, after we could no longer get letters through. I don’t even remember all that’s in them, but they will explain what happened, and why I didn’t write to you even when I could have, and why I can’t see you again.
You have always been the only person who truly respected me; I am ashamed at how little I deserve that respect. Your kindness and your faith should have better payment, than what I’ve given you. Ensnared as I am by people who are still fighting a war that can never be either won or lost, who will not give up or let go—reading your accounts of the new life on whose threshold you stand—I know how terrible a disservice I do you, every day that I tell you a lie that will hold you back, that will keep you waiting for someone who will never arrive. You deserve better than that—and that is something that I can give you.
I love you very much. I’m just not very good at loving anybody.
Good-by,
S
[packet of letters enclosed]
Cora Poole, The White House
Washington
To
Susanna Ashford, General Delivery
Greeneville, Tennessee
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1865
[returned unopened March 30, 1866]
[burned unread]
Cora Poole, The White House
Washington
To
Susanna Ashford, General Delivery
Greeneville, Tennessee
FRIDAY, JANUARY 12, 1866
[returned unopened March 30, 1866]
[burned unread]
Cora Poole, The White House
Washington
To
Susanna Ashford, General Delivery
Greeneville, Tennessee
MONDAY, JANUARY 29, 1866
[returned unopened March 30, 1866]
[burned unread]
Cora Poole, The White House
Washington
To
Susanna Ashford, General Delivery
Greeneville, Tennessee
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 1866
[returned unopened March 30, 1866]
[burned unread]
Julia Balfour
Bayberry Run Plantation
Greene County, Tennessee
To
Cora Poole, The White House
Washington
MARCH 30, 1866
Mrs. Poole,
Enclosed are the letters you’ve been writing to my sister. I’m sorry to say she took her own life last October. May God damn you and every other Yankee to the Hell you deserve, for eternity.
—J.B.
Cora Poole, The White House
Washington
To
Susanna Ashford
[not sent]
FRIDAY, APRIL 13, 1866
NIGHT
Dearest Susanna,
Back during the War—I don’t really remember when—I remember asking you, what is this capacity of the human heart, to sustain the flame of hope for years, without visible fuel. You were there—I knew you were there—and that sustained me, during the worst days I have known. I do not know how I would have survived them, without your laughter. As I wrote to you then—to the Pretend-Susanna who would invariably get my letters the day after they were written—so I write to you now. I hope you’ll get this one.
Not to say, Forgive me, for the anger that kept me silent for those months—for you must have done what you did very shortly after you sent me that last letter, and you did not know how many months it took, for my anger to run its course. But to say, Thank you, for setting me free. Like Elizabeth Bennet—pushing her way through her anger at Darcy to re-read his letter and see what he actually said—I have forced myself to read and re-read your letters. I have indeed been lingering on the threshold of life, waiting for Emory. Had you not known of his death, and had the courage to tell me, how long would I have waited?
Justin has been in Washington since February. This evening, after I had read Julia’s letter, he called: I think it must be true what everyone always said of him, that those curious gray eyes do see beyond the present and the visible. He said he had dreamed of you, walking away from Bayberry early one morning at first light; had dreamed of Julia weeping, and known that it was because you never would return. He had hoped, he said, that it meant that you had—or would—take the courage to leave that place.
And so I shall think of you, my friend: that you did take up your courage, and you did leave that place, and walk away into the dawn-light. But, the place where you went to—the place where you will be happy—has no mail delivery. Would I grudge you your happiness there, just because you could never write to me again?
I write you this last time, to tell you that I will be happy here.
Probably not in Washington. The country has changed because of the War, and will change more drastically in the wake of the bloodshed and death that it took, to settle the questions: Do the local interests of the States or the higher commands of the government have the right to say what is permitted and not permitted? And, shall men and women be subject to slavery?
My dear friend Will once said to me, that he found it hard to fight for his homeland, knowing that the fight itself would transform that homeland into something it had not been before. Those questions were answered, but the answers left a vast and bitter stain on the hearts of those who lost their husbands and brothers, their homes and their children’s hopes. Politicians and men hardened by violence and greed now pick at the looted ruin of the South, and that poison, too, will spread down the years. The land th
at we hoped to save has changed, and like all change, the result doesn’t look as we expected it would.
I think it will be years, before I return to Maine. I may never again walk along those roads where the houses I knew are shuttered up and empty. Justin has spoken of beginning again in the West—he currently makes his living driving a cab here in Washington—but it takes money to make a new start. President Johnson has promised to help us, as and when he can.
And so we will go on, dear friend, into this new homeland, that is not the place where I grew up. I will carry you with me in my heart, and read your letters—all of them—for what they are: letters from a time and place that are dear to me, despite the grief and pain. And I will be happy.
But my dear friend, I will miss you so.
With all my love,
Your friend,
Cora
Mrs. Robert Broadstairs
100 Boulevard Sebastopol
2ème Arrondissement
Paris
To
Miss Ashford
c/o Galerie LaFontaine
10, rue de la Rochefoucault
9ème Arrondissement
Paris
THURSDAY, APRIL 22, 1869
Dear Miss Ashford:
At the exhibition at the Académie des Beaux-Arts this afternoon, I was struck speechless by your painting, Federal Gunboats Run the Vicksburg Battery—Night. It was not merely the beauty of the work which arrested me, but the resemblance it bears to a sketch in my possession, made by a dear friend of mine during the late American war. The clerk in charge of the exhibition directed me to the Galerie LaFontaine, where M. Taschler was kind enough to show me some of your other paintings—I was particularly taken by the Barbarian Chieftain Shown How to Write—-and to forward this note on to you.
My friend and I were estranged after the War, and I was told by members of her family that she had died. Not a day has passed since then that I have not cursed both my anger and my silence—for the fault was mine, and the circumstances leading to the break, far beyond her control. Yet, not until today did it ever occur to me to ask, Was the report of her death the truth?
If it was indeed the truth, and my friend is forever beyond my power to ask her forgiveness, please have no hesitation in dropping this letter into the fire. I have no wish to cause further pain, nor to avoid the harvest of what I have sown.
My daughter, my father-in-law, and I came to Paris in November of 1866, in the household of General Dix, the new American Minister: my father-in-law as the General’s coachman, I as companion to the General’s invalid wife and governess to their nieces. Here I met—and this spring, married—an English gentleman, Mr. Broadstairs, the kindest and most scholarly of men. I am most happy.
Please do not feel any obligation to respond to this, if it will bring discomfort to you or to members of your family. Though I sorely miss my dear friend, I take great joy in seeing the beauty of your work, knowing with what pain all good work is wrought. Forgive me if I presume, but I bought your painting of the little Devil’s paintbrush flower. It sits before me as I write.
Sincerely,
C.B.
Susanna Ashford
60, rue Lepic
19ème Arrondissement
Paris
To
Cora Broadstairs
100 Boulevard Sebastopol
2ème Arrondissement
Paris
THURSDAY (NIGHT), APRIL 22, 1869
Dearest Cora—
Dearest Friend—
The first letter that you wrote to me, back in May of 1861, you pointed out that were I my father’s son, rather than a daughter (and a homely one at that), no one would question my desire or my right to seek my right work, the calling of my heart. That meant so much to me, more than I can ever say. During those awful last years of the fighting, your letters saved my life, more than once. When you ceased writing, I felt it was I, not you as you say, who was reaping what I had sowed. I never knew you’d written: I think my sister Julia must have had a friend in town who intercepted whatever you tried to send me. But to tell the truth, after my betrayal of your trust, I did not expect you to write.
In March of ‘66 I realized, that if Julia were our father’s son, rather than a woman, not a man nor woman of my acquaintance would consider it right, for him (Julia) to keep his (her) family starving and in rags, only out of refusal to take help that was offered by those whose politics he (she) didn’t approve. Does that make sense? It was Julia’s choice, to stay on Bayberry—to live in the world of the past. She was not helpless. There were other choices she could make. And if you could walk on, and take your right place in the new-born world, and leave the past behind, then so, too, could I.
I send her money—I work as a copyist for law firms, to pay for my paints. She sends it back, so I know she’s still on Bayberry, and can at least afford a postage stamp. Never, ever did I think, that she would write to you after I left, and tell you I was dead. I should have, though. It sounds just like her. I am so sorry, for the grief this caused you, on top of your other many griefs.
It is so good—so good!—to see your handwriting before me, the ink fresh and not faded almost to nothingness, like all those yellowed letters in my box. I have the five letters Justin sent me, as well—does he know? If not, please don’t tell him of me, til I’ve spoken to you. He hasn’t married anybody, or anything, has he? (I haven’t.)
Do you know the coffee-stand at the Porte Maillot, where the road goes into the Bois de Boulogne? Can you meet me there tomorrow (Friday) at four? I’ll be wearing a straw hat and carrying a sketch-book—here’s a picture of me.
And don’t get run over by a carriage on the way, which is what would happen to one or the other of us if Mr. Dickens were writing this story.
I realize, I have no idea what you look like, anymore—I haven’t seen you since April of 1861! Carry a copy of Pride and Prejudice, so I’ll know it’s you.
Love,
Susie
[sketch]
A NOTE ON SOURCES
Over the course of the two-years-plus during which I worked on Homeland, I lost count of how many sources I used: letters, newspapers, books on everything from soap-making to the history of slang, journeys through Appalachia and Maine and to Vicksburg and Washington, DC.
A few of my most hard-used sources were: Andrew Johnson, A Biography by Hans Trefousse; The Civil War Day by Day by E. B. Long; Noel C. Fisher’s War at Every Door; Vernal Hutchinson’s A Maine Town in the Civil War; My Cave Life in Vicksburg by A. Lady (actually Mary Webster Loughborough); and Fighting Words by Andrew Coopersmith. There were too many others to name or count, and Web sites beyond computation, for my intention was not simply to write about the Civil War, but to put myself—if I could—into the hearts, corsets, and shoes of two women who were out of step with the accepted views of those around them.
And there were many such. Despite torrents of propaganda on both sides, the Civil War was fiercely unpopular in the North, and the South was far from united about the decision of the various State governments to separate from the Union—a split particularly virulent in the eastern part of Tennessee. Little is written about these dissenters, and less still is taught in most college survey courses, let alone at lower levels. Men deserted, and dodged the draft, in droves; partisan fighting continued in Tennessee for months after Appomatox; in the North, as one Maine man recalled, “You had to be awful careful what you said.”
It was a time of courage and sacrifice, but it was also a time of great turmoil, when men and women, North and South, strove to grapple with questions that had no good answers: human rights and national security, loyalty, survival, and the freedom to choose.
“The Volunteer’s Wife to Her Husband,” an early Civil War poem, quoted on pg. 95. Quoted in Nina Silber, Daughters of the Union: Northern Women Fight the Civil War, Harvard University Press, 2005; pg 18.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BARBARA HAMBLY attended the University of C
alifornia and spent a year at the University of Bordeaux obtaining a master’s degree in medieval history. She has worked as both a teacher and a technical editor, but her first love has always been history. Barbara Hambly is the author of Patriot Hearts, The Emancipator’s Wife, A Free Man of Color, Fever Season, Graveyard Dust, Wet Grave, Sold Down the River, Die Upon a Kiss, Days of the Dead, and Dead Water.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Barbara Hambly
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks
of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hambly, Barbara.
Homeland / Barbara Hambly.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90687-5
1. Female friendship—Fiction. 2. United States—History—Civil War,
1861–1865—Social aspects—Fiction. 3. United States—History—Civil
War, 1861-1865—Psychological aspects—Fiction. 4. United States—