by Judy Alter
"Autie," I cried, "we have to get dressed."
"Shhh! It will be all right. The tent is secure—it'll hold."
"How can it?" I wailed, as I burrowed into the shelter of his arms.
"Wait," he said, "until the rain starts. It will quiet the wind."
Unbelievably, he was right—but the next morning havoc greeted us—tents blown down, utensils blown about, brush everywhere. Father Custer's tent had collapsed, and he'd had to get himself out from under it, something he accomplished with difficulty but told about with such droll humor that we were soon all laughing.
With Nettie, it was a different story. When the men were off repairing the damage, she clung to me. "Libbie, how have you stood it?"
"Well," I said practically, "it never has blown like that before."
She wore a soft, pale gown, tremendously unsuited to our situation, and matching dainty shoes on her feet, which must, I thought, have been half-frozen. Her hair was parted, though badly, and her eyes were dark with circles. Now she sank into the chair so kindly provided by the Graces.
"I wanted to be with Jacob so badly, but I don't think... I can't stand..."
Was Nettie going to turn weak-kneed on me? After I'd so looked forward to her arrival? "Nonsense," I said briskly, "you'll be as good a campaigner as I am. It's either that, Nettie, or be sent back to Monroe." She wailed, but I refused to give her any sympathy, which would, I thought, have sent her over the edge into a cauldron of self-pity.
"I... I miss home... and Monroe... and..."
"Fresh apples," I said decisively. "I've missed good fresh apples ever since we got here."
Nettie looked startled, for apples, I knew, were not on her mind.
"Remember how you missed Jacob when you were in Monroe," I said heartlessly. "Now, let's fix your face." There was no worry about obtaining water cold enough to brace tear-swollen eyes, as there had been when I'd tried to camouflage a crying spell in Louisiana. Nettie yowled anew when I splashed the water on her face and swore it froze the moment it touched her skin. But by the time Jacob came to collect her, she was mostly recovered and able to smile a little.
"Had a bit of a rough welcome, I'm afraid," Jacob said softly, putting a protective arm around her. "But I certainly am glad this girl's here."
If Nettie didn't behave and make Jacob happy, I vowed, I'd personally take a whip to her!
* * *
In November we were ordered to the city of Austin, Texas, where we remained until late January. We marched again from Hempstead to Austin, but it was a far different march—the weather was neither hot nor muggy; indeed, it was almost pleasant, as though Texas had decided to show us what it could do to be welcoming. We crossed a few rivers, but most we could ford—no more that fearful skate down steep banks to a pontoon bridge. Eggs, butter, and poultry were plentiful at the comfortable farms we passed, and sometimes the officers went astray to chase a hare—though much to my relief, the chaparral bushes often provided safe hiding places for the desperate animals. I did not mind eating venison or even rabbit, but I never wanted to see them killed.
We arrived in Austin with at least three kind offers of hospitality from local citizens, for even though loyal southerners, many of these locals were relieved to see a Federal force coming to restore law and order.
"I won't stay in another man's house," Autie announced, but then immediately softened his proclamation with a query. "You don't mind, do you, Libbie? We can camp here outside the city for a few days and get the lay of the land."
"Here" was on a hillside above the city, with a magnificent view of a charming town of stucco houses, given the look of summer even in November by the perpetual green of its live-oak trees. Looking carefully, we could make out the magnificence of the State House and the governor's mansion—after months of camping, they were indeed wondrous buildings to us.
"No, Autie," I said truthfully, "I should prefer to camp here. I... well, I hate to give up our camp life."
Once we were settled—in the Blind Asylum, which had been closed during the war—I missed camp life even more. The ceiling seemed to come down to smother me during the night, and though we kept all three windows in our room open, there was never enough air stirring. And most of all I missed the gentle rocking of the wagon in the wind, where I had been lulled to sleep so many nights, in spite of my fears of scorpions and their fellow creatures.
I had no need, however, to miss the dogs who had surrounded our wagon, for many had come with us.
"Autie, get that dog out of here!" Byron, the lordliest of his hounds—a purebred greyhound—had installed himself on our bed next to Autie, who had, in his usual fashion, simply flung himself down on the bed. "I believe," he once told me, "that I must have got the habit at West Point, where we lived in terror of a wrinkle." Wherever he learned it, Autie was wont to spread his arms and jump backward on a bed, so that he lay spread out, taking most of the room. Adding Byron to this scene left little room for me, even though it was but nap time in the afternoon and not night.
Instead of answering me, Autie crooned to the dog, "Walk right up here on this clean white spread, without troubling yourself to care whether your feet are muddy or not. Your Aunt Eliza wants you to lie on nice, white counterpanes—she washes them especially for you."
Byron responded by licking his master's hand and turning a most venomous look on me. I called Eliza, who entered in her usual state of anger at something or other the general had done. Byron took one look at her and curled back his lip to expose long, white fangs, a greeting accompanied by a low, threatening sound from his throat. Eliza paled visibly.
"Never mind, Eliza. I shall take a broom to him." But Byron declined to move, and growled at me every bit as ferociously. Autie lay there, silent and amused—he had a fondness for not interfering in difficulties between others.
"I shall simply lie down," I announced, to no one in particular, though two humans and one dog watched me intently. I lay down in the small portion of the bed that was left, my angry back toward Autie and his blasted dog. Byron soon planted his feet against my back and began to push, ever so subtly, until I was in danger of edging off the bed and was, in truth, afraid of the dog.
"Now see what you done, Ginnel?" Eliza exclaimed in anger. "You keer more for that pesky, sassy old hound than you do for Miss Libbie, and your mother would be right ashamed of you now."
Autie had had enough. He gave Byron a kick that sent him flying off the bed. "Get out of here," he said to Eliza, though both she and he knew his anger was only put on. Eliza had a way of treating him as though he were a big boy away from home for the first time, and when provoked enough, she always invoked his mother, though she never had met that dear lady. Somehow it had an effect on Autie.
The battle of the dogs continued, however—for one day my beloved Ginnie, a pointer given us in Hempstead, failed to appear. She was always thumping her tail at our door, early in the morning, a gentle hint that it was time to be up. "Autie," I implored, "where can she be?"
"Probably out with some dog," he growled from the comfort of his covers. "You can never trust a bitch."
I threw a pillow at him, and he, laughing, got into his pants to go investigate. In truth, Autie was as concerned as I and as fond of Ginnie. In no time he came bounding back up the stairs to announce that she was fine, but seven small Ginnies were taking breakfast from their mother in quarters under the porch. Breathless, I followed him, and Autie crawled under the porch to hand the babies to me, one by one, while Ginnie paced frantically beside us. With the last one in his hand, Autie led the way to our bedroom and deposited the puppy in the midst of our bed—Ginnie's rag bed in the hall was in no way good enough for such a family. Ginnie and the rest of the brood were soon installed in the same place. Then nothing would do but that we called Eliza.
That not-so-patient woman took one look and demanded, "Did I come all the way out here to this no-count country to wash white counterpanes for dogs?"
In time we had twenty-th
ree dogs at the Blind Asylum, but Byron and Ginnie were the lordliest of all.
* * *
"Autie, what will you do when peacetime is declared?" It was an accepted fact that once law and order were restored in Texas, Autie's brevet rank would be meaningless, and his pay would revert to that of his regular rank—from $6,000 to about $1600 a year.
We had ridden up Mount Brunnel outside Austin, a path smooth but so steep that we'd dismounted and walked part of the way. The view from the top, though, was magnificent—the river that wound through Austin, and which on close examination was filled with sand bars, looked from this distance like a silver ribbon, and the plowed fields in the lowlands made huge square patterns in the green vista. I was mounted on Custis Lee, and Autie on a fine Thoroughbred that he had traded from a Texan on the march from Hempstead. We hardly looked like people to be concerned about money—and yet I was. I've no idea yet why I determined to bring up the subject at that particular moment, though, and thereby spoil what had been an almost-perfect afternoon for the two of us.
"Are you worried about money?" he asked in a bantering tone.
"Yes," I answered, my tone much more direct, "I am."
"We're living very frugally," Autie said, still in that jaunty tone that was clearly meant to say that I was worrying about nothing and he didn't want to talk about it.
"But we had nothing when we came here. Living frugally may perhaps get us out of debt."
"We spent the money at a milliner's shop, buying hats for you," he railed indignantly.
As patiently as possible, I sighed and refrained from pointing out that he had made those purchases, not I. "But Autie, what will we do when your rank is reduced?"
It was, of course, an event he did not contemplate with joy—and therefore rarely faced with serious thought. "Something will work out," he said.
"My father is concerned," I told him. "He writes me often about investments...."
"I have many investment opportunities here," Autie said loftily. "Horses... land... even cattle."
"Papa says land would be a bad investment for us, for we'd have to move on and leave it."
"Papa says!" he mocked, pulling too hard on the reins, so that his horse jumped in amazement. "Don't you think I can take care of you without listening to Papa every minute?"
Poor Custis Lee, for I sawed every bit as violently on his reins, turning him away from Autie in my anger at that remark.
"Wait!" Autie cried. "Hear me out! I've provided very well for you, in spite of your father's doubts.... Oh, I know, he worried about you living in a wagon like an immigrant. Well, you did... and you enjoyed it!"
I could offer no argument, so I remained silent. We had by now reined our horses to a walk, and they, accustomed to all manner of activities by their riders, showed no alarm at the anger that flew between us.
"Well, now he fears poverty for you, and if that happens, I'll make you love that, too!"
I stared at him in amazement. It was such an irrational, childish argument that I had no answer. We rode in silence for several minutes.
"Besides," Autie finally said, "your long-term well-being is in no doubt. Your father will leave you a comfortable inheritance."
And then my anger exploded, scaring both horses, myself, and most of all, Autie. "What do you plan to do?" I screamed. "Kill him off when we need the money!" I spurred Custis Lee more viciously than I ever had—an act I regretted ever after—and left Autie sitting behind, staring at our disappearing dust.
"Libbie," he commanded futilely, "come back here!"
I was settled in our bedroom at the asylum before he spoke to me again, and then he was tentative in his approach. "Libbie?"
"Yes?" I answered coldly, anger still rising in me like bile.
"I didn't mean that... I just can't bear for you to think I won't take care of you."
"Autie," I said levelly, "I know you mean to take care of me." And I let the rest of the thought dangle. But I did not rush into the outstretched arms he held toward me.
Later Autie asked me, in serious tones, if our future planning might not eventually include some kind of inheritance from my father, and I had to tell him I would receive the house on the occasion of Papa's death—he was then in poor health, but his death was not expected by any means—and my stepmother would receive the bulk of a pitifully small estate for a man of Papa's prominence.
"He's just borrowed money to fix up the house," I said, "because he's sure people will want to know where General Custer's father-in-law lives, and the house must be in good enough shape so as not to disgrace you."
* * *
"Libbie? Nettie's awful sick. I wonder... could you see to her today?" Jacob Greene approached me at breakfast, a meal I would long since have forgone except that Autie warned me the troops would think me a "feather-bed soldier" if I stayed abed instead of rising to eat with the officers. Nettie had so far never appeared this early in the morning, so I'd not been surprised by her absence.
"Of course, Jacob. I'll go to her now."
Nettie and Jacob occupied rooms just down the hall from ours in the asylum, so getting to her was not difficult at all. My knock elicited a weak "Come in," and I found Nettie prostrate on the bed, a cold cloth on her head, still in her nightgown with her hair undone.
"Nettie? Jacob says you're feeling poorly."
She let out a loud groan. "That's a mild understatement. I can't stand up without throwing up. Poor Jacob... he's longed to have me with him, and now look at me."
"Are you just sick today?"
"No, but today's worse. I've felt bad every morning for two weeks."
"Nettie... are you expecting?"
There was no surprise, no girlish, "Oh, do you think so?" Instead, she said grimly, "I'm quite sure that's the problem."
"Problem?" I exclaimed. "Oh, Nettie, if it were me, I'd be so delighted, you'd have to stop me from singing it from the rooftops."
She put a hand to her head, her expression pained. "That's because you don't feel like I do, Libbie. And if you did, you wouldn't want to be thousands of miles from home in this godforsaken country."
"Oh, Nettie, we won't be here forever. You'll be safely back in Monroe by the time the baby comes... and Jacob will be so happy."
I thought, of course, of Autie and the joy he'd have shown if I'd exhibited similar symptoms. As it was, I worried about telling Autie and delayed for several days. In fact, I delayed so long that he heard the news from Tom.
"Ain't it grand?" Tom exploded. "When are you and Libbie goin' to give us the same kind of news?"
"I've no idea," Autie said, tight-lipped, while I wished that the very floor would open and swallow me.
"No," he said that night as we lay in bed, "I'm not upset. I'm happy for Jacob and Nettie." But he turned aside and went to sleep without touching me, and I, of course, thought that he considered making love to me a fruitless exercise. My pillow was wet with tears before I slept that night.
* * *
Christmas came and went—we filled the huge parlor of the asylum with evergreens, made canopies of flags, fashioned wax lights in impromptu wooden sconces, and waxed the floor till it shone for dancing. One of the soldiers organized a band, and a sergeant called off quadrilles. We had a grand and festive feast with all the proper courses—soup, roast game, and pudding for dessert.
As Autie raised his glass in toast to the holidays, I looked at our table and the faces of those who meant so much to me—besides Autie, there were Tom and Nettie and Jacob and one or two others who had been with us since our early-summer boat trip down the Mississippi. If I could not be with Papa and Mama, I thought, I surely could have not asked for a better Christmas nor for more loving companions.
All good things, it seems, come quickly to an end, for in January it was decided that the civil authorities in Texas were now capable of restoring law and order. The government considered a cavalry division in Texas unnecessary, especially since there was now no longer an expedition going to Mexico. T
he U.S. government, it seems, wished to avoid offending France. Peacetime was declared—the move we had dreaded so much—and we prepared ourselves to head back to Monroe. Autie was officially between assignments and reduced in rank, his brevetted rank gone, and with it a good portion of our income.
We had scant belongings to pack, for we'd been traveling light and, of late, living with other people's furniture. We could not take all the dogs, though Byron and Ginnie would go, and Jack Rucker, Custis Lee, and the fine new Thoroughbred would be shipped to Michigan while we returned by boat to New Orleans and then north by steamer. We returned the cow a kind citizen had lent us and reluctantly bid good-bye to the many friends we had made. Texas, feared as a wild 'n' woolly place, had been a grand adventure for us, and we would always recall it with special fondness.
With Nettie, Jacob, Tom, and three other senior officers, we rode from Austin to Brennan, a ride made pleasant by good roads and fresh horses and made easier because Autie did not have an entire division to manage. But when we stopped at a small hotel in Brennan, I was alarmed by the knots of men gathered in the courtyard.
"Autie, those men..."
"Confederates," he said tersely. "Pay them no mind."
They were hard to ignore, for it was obvious from their looks and gestures that they were talking about us. Jacob, Tom, Autie, and the other men, of course, walked tall and bold in their blue army uniforms, and there was no mistaking their loyalties. We could not reach the dining hall without passing by one particular group of about six men, so I held tight to Autie's arm and lowered my eyes. Still, I could not close my ears.
"Damned Yankees," came the muttered growl. "Ought to teach 'em a thing or two about southern hospitality... send 'em packing back where they belong." The rest of what they said was too vile to repeat, but at each epithet I felt the muscles in Autie's arm tighten. Any moment I expected his blood to be raised to fighting heat, but to my surprise—and relief—he and the others simply walked by as if the men did not exist or were, at the least, silent.