Battle Ground

by Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow

  VII

  THE SILENT BATTLE

  Despite the cheerfulness of Betty's letters, there were times during thenext dark years when it seemed to her that starvation must be the only end.The negroes had been freed by the Governor's will, but the girl could notturn them from their homes, and, with the exception of the few field handswho had followed the Union army, they still lived in their little cabinsand drew their daily rations from the storehouse. Betty herself sharedtheir rations of cornmeal and bacon, jealously guarding her small suppliesof milk and eggs for Mrs. Ambler and the two old ladies. "It makes nodifference what I eat," she would assure protesting Mammy Riah. "I am sostrong, you see, and besides I really like Aunt Floretta's ashcakes."

  Spring and summer passed, with the ripened vegetables which Hosea hadplanted in the garden, and the long winter brought with it the old dailystruggle to make the slim barrels of meal last until the next harvesting.It was in this year that the four women at Uplands followed the Major'slead and invested their united fortune in Confederate bonds. "We will riseor fall with the government," Mrs. Ambler had said with her gentleauthority. "Since we have given it our best, let it take all freely."

  "Surely money is of no matter," Betty had answered, lavishly disregardfulof worldly goods. "Do you think we might give our jewels, too? I havegrandma's pearls hidden beneath the floor, you know."

  "If need be--let us wait, dear," replied her mother, who, grave and pallidas a ghost, would eat nothing that, by any chance, could be made to reachthe army.

  "I do not want it, my child, there are so many hungrier than I," she wouldsay when Betty brought her dainty little trays from the pantry.

  "But I am hungry for you, mamma--take it for my sake," the girl would beg,on the point of tears. "You are starving, that is it--and yet it does notfeed the army."

  In these days it seemed to her that all the anguish of her life had centredin the single fear of losing her mother. At times she almost reproachedherself with loving Dan too much, and for months she would resolutely keepher thoughts from following him, while she laid her impassioned service ather mother's feet. Day or night there was hardly a moment when she was notbeside her, trying, by very force of love, to hold her back from the deathto which she went with her slow and stately tread.

  For Mrs. Ambler, who had kept her strength for a year after the Governor'sdeath, seemed at last to be gently withdrawing from a place in which shefound herself a stranger. There was nothing to detain her now; she was tooheartsick to adapt herself to many changes; loss and approaching povertymight be borne by one for whom the chief thing yet remained, but she hadseen this go, and so she waited, with her pensive smile, for the momentwhen she too might follow. If Betty were not looking she would put heruntasted food aside; but the girl soon found this out, and watched herevery mouthful with imploring eyes.

  "Oh, mamma, do it to please me," she entreated.

  "Well, give it back, my dear," Mrs. Ambler answered, complaisant as always,and when Betty triumphantly declared, "You feel better now--you know youdo, you dearest," she responded readily:--

  "Much better, darling; give me some straw to plait--I have grown to like tohave my hands busy. Your old bonnet is almost gone, so I shall plait youone of this and trim it with a piece of ribbon Aunt Lydia found yesterdayin the attic."

  "I don't mind going bareheaded, if you will only eat."

  "I was never a hearty eater. Your father used to say that I ate less than arobin. It was the custom for ladies to have delicate appetites in my day,you see; and I remember your grandma's amazement when Miss PokeyMickleborough was asked at our table what piece of chicken she preferred,and answered quite aloud, 'Leg, if you please.' She was considered veryindelicate by your grandma, who had never so much as tasted any part exceptthe wing."

  She sat, gentle and upright, in her rosewood chair, her worn silk dressrustling as she crossed her feet, her beautiful hands moving rapidly withthe straw plaiting. "I was brought up very carefully, my dear," she added,turning her head with its shining bands of hair a little silvered since thebeginning of the war. "'A girl is like a flower,' your grandpa always said.'If a rough wind blows near her, her bloom is faded.' Things are differentnow--very different."

  "But this is war," said Betty.

  Mrs. Ambler nodded over the slender braid.

  "Yes, this is war," she added with her wistful smile, and a momentafterward looked up again to ask in a dazed way:--

  "What was the last battle, dear? I can't remember."

  Betty's glance sought the lawn outside where the warm May sunshine fell inshafts of light upon the purple lilacs.

  "They are fighting now in the Wilderness," she answered, her thoughtsrushing to the famished army closed in the death grapple with its enemy."Dan got a letter to me and he says it is like fighting in a jungle, thevines are so thick they can't see the other side. He has to aim by earinstead of sight."

  Mrs. Ambler's fingers moved quickly.

  "He has become a very fine man," she said. "Your father always likedhim--and so did I--but at one time we were afraid that he was going to betoo much his father's son--he looked so like him on his wild days,especially when he had taken wine and his colour went high."

  "But he has the Lightfoot eyes. The Major, Champe, even their Great-auntEmmeline have those same gray eyes that are always laughing."

  "Jane Lightfoot had them, too," added Mrs. Ambler. "She used to say that tolove hard went with them. 'The Lightfoot eyes are never disillusioned,' sheonce told me. I wonder if she remembered that afterwards, poor girl."

  Betty was silent for a moment.

  "It sounds cruel," she confessed, "but you know, I have sometimes thoughtthat it may have been just a little bit her fault, mamma."

  Mrs. Ambler smiled. "Your grandpa used to say 'get a woman to judge a womanand there comes a hanging.'"

  "Oh, I don't mean that," responded Betty, blushing. "Jack Montjoy was ascoundrel, I suppose--but I think that even if Dan had been a scoundrel,instead of so big and noble--I could have made his life so much better justbecause I loved him; if love is only large enough it seems to me that allsuch things as being good and bad are swallowed up."

  "I don't know--your father was very good, and I loved him because of it. Hewas of the salt of the earth, as Mr. Blake wrote to me last year."

  "There has never been anybody like papa," said Betty, her eyes filling."Not even Dan--for I can't imagine papa being anything but what he was--andyet I know even if Dan were as wild as the Major once believed him to be, Icould have gone with him not the least bit afraid. I was so sure of myselfthat if he had beaten me he could not have broken my spirit. I shouldalways have known that some day he would need me and be sorry."

  Tender, pensive, bred in the ancient ways, Mrs. Ambler looked up at her andshook her head.

  "You are very strong, my child," she answered, "and I think it makes us alllean too much upon you."

  Taking her hand, Betty kissed each slender finger. "I lean on you for thebest in life, mamma," she answered, and then turned to the window. "It'smy working time," she said, "and there is poor Hosea trying to ploughwithout horses. I wonder how he'll manage it."

  "Are all the horses gone, dear?"

  "All except Prince Rupert and papa's mare. Peter keeps them hidden in themountains, and I carried them the last two apples yesterday. Prince Rupertknew me in the distance and whinnied before Peter saw me. Now I'll sendAunt Lydia to you, dearest, while I see about the weaving. Mammy Riah hasalmost finished my linsey dress." She kissed her again and went out towhere the looms were working in one of the detached wings.

  The summer went by slowly. The famished army fell back inch by inch, and atUplands the battle grew more desperate with the days. Without horses it wasimpossible to plant the crops and on the open turnpike swept by bands ofraiders as by armies, it was no less impossible to keep the little that wasplanted. Betty, standing at her window in the early mornings, would glancedespairingly over the wasted fields and the quiet little cabins, where t
henegroes were stirring about their work. Those little cabins, forming acrescent against the green hill, caused her an anxiety before which her owndaily suffering was of less account. When the time came that was fastapproaching, and the secret places were emptied of their last supplies,where could those faithful people turn in their distress? The questionstabbed her like a sword each morning before she put on her bonnet ofplaited straw and ran out to make her first round of the farm. Behind hercheerful smile there was always the grim fear growing sharper every hour.

  Then on a golden summer afternoon, when the larder had been swept by a bandof raiders, she became suddenly aware that there was nothing in the housefor her mother's supper, and, with the army pistol in her hand, set outacross the fields for Chericoke. As she walked over the sunny meadows, theshadow that was always lifted in Mrs. Ambler's presence fell heavily uponher face and she choked back a rising sob. What would the end be? she askedherself in sudden anguish, or was this the end?

  Reaching Chericoke she found Mrs. Lightfoot and Aunt Rhody drying slicedsweet potatoes on boards along the garden fence, where the sunflowers andhollyhocks flaunted in the face of want.

  "I've just gotten a new recipe for coffee, child," the old lady began inmild excitement. "Last year I made it entirely of sweet potatoes, but Mrs.Blake tells me that she mixes rye and a few roasted chestnuts. Mr.Lightfoot took supper with her a week ago, and he actually congratulatedher upon still keeping her real old Mocha. Be sure to try it."

  "Indeed I shall--the very next time Hosea gets any sweet potatoes. Someraiders have just dug up the last with their sabres and eaten them raw."

  "Well, they'll certainly have colic," remarked Mrs. Lightfoot, withprofessional interest.

  "I hope so," said Betty, "but I've come over to beg something for mamma'ssupper--eggs, chickens, anything except bacon. She can't touch that, she'dstarve first."

  Looking anxious, Mrs. Lightfoot appealed to Aunt Rhody, who was busilyspreading little squares of sweet potatoes on the clean boards. "Rhody,can't you possibly find us some eggs?" she inquired.

  Aunt Rhody stopped her work and turned upon them all the dignity of twohundred pounds of flesh.

  "How de hens gwine lay w'en dey's done been eaten up?" she demanded.

  "Isn't there a single chicken left?" hopelessly persisted the old lady.

  "Who gwine lef' 'em? Ain' dose low-lifeted sodgers dat rid by yestiddy donestole de las' one un 'um off de nes'?"

  Mrs. Lightfoot sternly remonstrated.

  "They were our own soldiers, Rhody, and they don't steal--they merelytake."

  "I don' see de diffunce," sniffed Aunt Rhody. "All I know is dat dey pulledde black hen plum off de nes' whar she wuz a-settin'. Den des now deYankees come a-prancin' up en de ducks tuck ter de water en de Yankees deywent a-wadin' atter dem. Yes, Lawd, dey went a-wadin' wid dey shoes on."

  The old lady sighed.

  "I'm afraid there's nothing, Betty," she said, "though Congo has gone totown to see if he can find any fowls, and I'll send some over if he bringsthem. We had a Sherman pudding for dinner ourselves, and I know the sorghumin it will give the Major gout for a month. Well, well, this is war, Ireckon, and I must say, for my part, I never expected it to be conductedlike a flirtation behind a fan."

  "I nuver seed no use a-fittin' unless you is gwine ter fit in de yutherpusson's yawd," interpolated Aunt Rhody. "De way ter fit is ter keepa-sidlin' furder f'om yo' own hen roos' en nigher ter de hen roos' er desomebody dat's a-fittin' you."

  "Hold your tongue, Rhody," retorted Mrs. Lightfoot, and then drew Betty alittle to one side. "I have some port wine, my dear," she whispered, "whichCupid buried under the old asparagus bed, and I'll tell him to dig upseveral bottles and take them to you. The other servants don't know of it,so I can't get it out till after dark. Poor Julia! how does she stand theseterrible days?"

  Betty's lips quivered. "I have to force her to eat," she replied, "and itseems almost cruel--she is so tired of life."

  "I know, my dear," responded the old lady, wiping her eyes; "and we haveour troubles, too. Champe is in prison now, and Mr. Lightfoot is very muchupset. He says this General Grant is not like the others, that he knowshim--and he's the kind to hang on as long as he's alive."

  "But we must win in the end," said Betty, desperately; "we have sacrificedso much, how can it all be lost?"

  "That's what Mr. Lightfoot says--we'll win in the end, but the end's a longway off. By the way, did you know that Car'line had run off after theYankees? When I think how that girl had been spoiled!"

  "Oh, I wish they'd all go," returned Betty. "All except Mammy and UncleShadrach and Hosea--and even they make starvation that much nearer."

  "Well, we shan't starve yet awhile, dear; I'm in hopes that Congo willransack the town. If you would only stay."

  But Betty shook her head and went back across the meadows, walking rapidlythrough the lush grass of the deserted pastures. Her mind was so filledwith Mrs. Lightfoot's forebodings, that when, in climbing the low stonewall, she saw the free negro, Levi, coming toward her, she turned to himwith a gesture that was almost an appeal for sympathy.

  "Uncle Levi, these are sad times now," she said. "I am looking forsomething for mamma's supper and I can find nothing."

  The old negro, shabbier, lonelier, poorer than ever, shambled up to thewall where she was standing and uncovered a split basket full of eggs.

  "I'se got a pa'cel er hens hid in de woods over yonder," he explained, "enI keep de eggs behin' de j'ists in my cabin. Sis Floretty she tole me datde w'ite folks wuz wuss off den de niggers now, so I brung you dese."

  "Oh, Uncle Levi!" cried Betty, seizing his gnarled old hands. As she lookedat his stricken figure a compassion as acute as pain brought the quicktears to her eyes. She remembered the isolation of his life, the scornfulsuspicion he had met from white and black, and the injustice that had sethim free and sold Sarindy up the river.

  "You wuz moughty good ter me," muttered free Levi, shuffling his bare feetin the long grass, "en Marse Dan, he wuz moughty good ter me, too, 'fo' hewent away on dat black night. I 'members de time w'en dat ole Rainy-dayJones up de big road (we all call him Rainy-day caze he looked so sour) hadme right by de collar wid de hick'ry branch a sizzlin' in de a'r, en I des'lowed de een had mos' come. Yes, Lawd, I did, but I warn' countin' onMarse Dan. He warn' mo'n wais' high ter ole Rainy-day, but de furs' thing Iknow dar wuz ole Rainy-day on de yerth wid Marse Dan a-lashin' 'im wid debranch er hick'ry."

  "We shall never forget you--Dan and I," answered Betty, as she took thebasket, "and when the time comes we will repay you."

  The old negro smiled and turned from her, and Betty, quickening her pace,ran on to Uplands, reaching the house a little breathless from the longwalk.

  In the chamber upstairs she found Mrs. Ambler sitting before the windowwith her open Bible on the sill, where a spray of musk roses entered fromthe outside wall.

  "All well, mamma?" she asked in a cheerful voice.

  Mrs. Ambler started and turned slowly from the window.

  "I see a great light on the road," she murmured wonderingly.

  Crossing to where she sat, Betty leaned out above the climbing roses andglanced to the mountains huddled against the sky.

  "It is General Sheridan going up the valley," she said.