The Pledge, Value

by Jane Peart

  She often echoed the plaintive question that Wes had written in one of his letters that spring.

  Why are we killing each other? We are all the same, descended from the same band of brave men who founded this country in the first place. If we have such differences, why can’t we settle them peacefully? What if men on both sides simply refused to fight, demanded that the politicians settle this some other way?

  Forgive me, my darling, for burdening you with all this. But I have no one else to talk to who would understand, who knows my heart, mind, and soul as you do. I miss you more than I can say. Pray that this wretched war comes to a speedy end with victory for the Union, saving our wonderful country. I long for the day I can come back to you, kiss your sweet mouth. I love you, JoBeth. Pray for me.

  Ever your devoted,

  Wesley

  If only Uncle Madison could read what Wes was feeling, maybe he would understand and forgive him. That was impossible, of course. JoBeth could not show this letter to anyone. As she read his letters, she realized that Wes was thinking deeper, becoming more mature, more spiritual. She had never heard any of the men in her family—for that matter, any of the men she knew—express such feelings. Her one comfort was the pledge quilt she was making. Hiding all in her heart, she stitched on her quilt, counting the finished squares as milestones until she could be with Wes again. Strengthening herself, she would think over and over, No matter what anyone says or thinks, I love him and he will come back! We will be together.

  One day Aunt Josie asked, “Aren’t you ever going to finish that quilt, JoBeth? Seems to me you’ve been working on it quite a spell.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know,” JoBeth answered noncommittally. No one knew her secret pledge not to complete it until the war was over and Wesley returned safely.

  Spring arrived and the war picked up momentum—battles fought, battles won. First the Confederates seemed to be winning, then the Union forces. Elation or depression came and went like the tide. Letters from Wes were rare. Sometimes JoBeth would get two or three at once, and other times weeks would pass before she heard from him. The letters she received did nothing to lift her spirits.

  She herself was surrounded on every side by those who are all “hurrah for the South.” Of course, she understood. Their dear ones were in danger, fighting for what they believed was right. Sometimes it was hard to take so much talk edged with mean-spirited comments about “Yankees” as though they were an alien people. Did not people on both sides of the conflict bear a similar appearance, pray to the same God?

  November 1862

  With the bleak November weather, JoBeth experienced an eerie sense of doom. The war was never going to end. It would go on and on, just as her pile of patches grew. How many would she have to make before the war was over, before Wes was home? She began to feel like some kind of prisoner condemned to piecework, turning out a required number of units day after day. Each new one she cut out and started sewing added to her sentence. A self-imposed sentence. She would go on making them—she didn’t care how long or how big the final quilt became. Sometimes she almost lost heart, but something—fear as much as anything else—doggedly compelled her on. It isn’t superstition, she told herself. Wasn’t she praying constantly all the time she worked on it—for Wes’s safety, for the war to end? As the patches accumulated, so did the days and months drag by. She continued writing to Wes. Even if she wasn’t always sure he got the letters, it helped her to write them. It relieved some of her tension to express the feelings she had to suppress in her daily life. The fall dragged into winter, and JoBeth dreaded facing another Christmas without Wes.

  December 1862

  Let us keep Chrismas merry.

  Charles Dickens

  Chapter Nine

  In an unspoken agreement, everyone seemed determined to follow Dickens’ suggestion to celebrate Christmas. In spite of the war, in spite of shortages, in spite of worry and deprivation, all bent every effort to appear cheerful and optimistic.

  Harvel was due home for a leave, so Holly Grove was again going to host the holiday dinner. It was the largest home in the family circle and thus could easily accommodate everyone in the family, as well as the few extras who were always welcome. Besides, it would be the right place for Harvel to spend his homecoming—among his young children. Each family group could bring some special dish, cake, or pie. Nowadays no single larder had the abundance of the past, so every contribution would add to the feast.

  A few days before Christmas, JoBeth went over to help Marilee decorate the house. She was on a stepladder, arranging festoons of evergreen boughs on the mantelpiece, when Alzada Spencer stopped by. Not noticing JoBeth at first, she announced that the twins also had obtained leave and were coming home, bringing one of their fellow officers with them. “It will be just like the old days—all of us together!” she declared happily. Marilee cast a quick glance at JoBeth, and Alzada, suddenly aware of her, gave a little gasp and flushed. Still she did not mention Wes, and she soon left.

  Even as JoBeth continued at her task as casually as she could manage, her thoughts were bitter. She bit her lip to hold back the quick tears at the dismal thought of where Wes might be spending Christmas. Would he even receive a Christmas box, other than the small one she had been able to smuggle out of the house and post to him? It seemed such a heartless thing for the Spencers to ignore the boy who had spent every Christmas of his growing-up years in their house as part of their family. She had heard of families disowning their sons. How could Wayne Spencer—or especially, tenderhearted Alzada—so coldly cut Wes out of their lives?

  JoBeth knew there were many others in Hillsboro who held deep feelings about a North Carolinian who would desert the Southern cause, join the ranks of the “enemy.” Only a few weeks before, she had been over at her great-aunt Honey’s, helping her put together a quilt. JoBeth’s job was simple, consisting of basting the top onto the cotton batting, then whipstitching the flannel-back top to its underside. While she was there, a longtime family friend, Patsy Faye Wrightman, dropped by for an impromptu visit. JoBeth had gone on stitching while Aunt Honey, always the gracious hostess, urged Mrs. Wrightman to stay for a cup of tea.

  JoBeth, concentrating on keeping her stitches straight, had paid little attention to the murmur of conversation behind her in the room. That is, until she heard Mrs. Wrightman say furiously, “I simply can’t abide him. A hometown Yankee sympathizer.” Aunt Honey gave a small warning cough, which was followed by a moment’s silence. Without turning around, JoBeth felt sure her auntie was sending some kind of signal to her guest. Evidently it didn’t matter to the lady, nor did it diminish the “righteous indignation” she was expressing. Instead, Mrs. Wrightman wiggled her plump body like a ruffled hen puffing up her feathers, shot JoBeth a scathing glance, and said sharply, “Oh, I pretty near forgot. Wesley Rutherford is one of them Unionists! I’m sorry, Honey, but maybe if you had three nephews and goodness knows how many dear friends’ sons fighting for our safety and well-being, you’d feel the same way I do! I can’t abide any of them turn-coats.” Without an apology to JoBeth, Mrs. Wrightman picked up her shawl, gloves, and purse and stood up, saying haughtily, “Well, I’d best be on my way. I’m rolling bandages this afternoon for our poor wounded boys….”

  The echo of the remark hung in the air in the hollow quiet after the front door closed behind Mrs. Wrightman. There was no sound other than the ticking of the mantel clock, the rustle of Aunt Honey’s skirts as she came back into the parlor, the clicking of the cups as she began gathering up the tea tray. At last she cleared her throat and said, “Don’t pay her any mind, JoBeth. Patsy Wrightman never thinks before she speaks. I’m sorry if she hurt you, dear—”

  “It’s not your fault, Auntie. I know that plenty of people feel the same way. It does hurt. Especially when I know how hard it was for Wes to make the decision he did, knowing no one would understand.” She added sadly, “But that’s the way it is. It happens even at home.”

  She
heard Aunt Honey sigh, then the rattle of teacups as she carried the tray back to the kitchen.

  She continued working on the quilt, wishing she could share with Aunt Honey the letter she had received from Wes just a few days before.

  Received your letter of the 25th. It arrived somewhat the worse for wear, having passed through who knows how many hands to reach me. I read it hungrily. Seeing your handwriting brought tears to my eyes. I had taken it aside to read it so that none would be witness to whatever unconcealable emotion it might evoke within me. Not that my fellow soldiers are so hard of heart that they would not understand—all here long for loved ones as deeply as I—but there are some things a man wants to keep private and precious, as I do my feelings for you.

  Until recently we had not had a regular chaplain and consequently no religious services. About three weeks ago one was assigned to this regiment, at least on a temporary basis, and conducted a meeting. The Scripture from which he drew his sermon was very much on the same order as you described.

  Second Chronicles 20:15-17: “Thus saith the Lord to you: ‘Do not be afraid nor dismayed of this great multitude, because the battle is not yours but God’s. Position yourselves, stand still and see the salvation of the Lord, who is with you.'”

  The men seemed to take great heart from that. Although I cannot say there is great religious fervor among soldiers, without this kind of preaching we would all grow lax and weary with the dreary routine of daily life in the army. I must not, however. Since we have had the chaplain, there is a stirring within the troops, and small groups are meeting for prayer. We all need the Almighty so as not to lose sight of the real purpose of this fight, to free men from bodily bondage, as we have been freed from spiritual bondage.

  Our unit got its orders to pack and be ready to move out in the morning. It has been raining for days, and we all live in mud, sleep in mud, and almost eat in mud. I have no idea where we are headed or to what battlefield we may be called upon to do what we have come to do. I don’t think they want to kill me anymore than I want to kill them! More and more, I understand my grandmother’s abhorrence of war. It is madness.

  The very next Sunday, JoBeth was seated in church. She was not being too attentive to the sermon. That summer, their old minister retired, one who had been an inspiration to and was so fond of Shelby. In fact, he had encouraged Shelby to go to seminary. His replacement was as fiery a Confederate as the most militant general would ask for. Suddenly his forceful words brought JoBeth to quivering attention.

  “Listen, church, to what the Scripture is saying to all of you. Recently we have heard with awe the number of men and weapons the enemy is gathering to come against us. So I say to you, search for your answer, your strength in our cause, in the book of Nehemiah, chapter four, verse fourteen. It is as true today as it was then: ‘So I arose and said to the noble, to the leaders, to the rest of the people, “Do not be afraid of them. Remember the Lord great and awesome, and fight for your bretheren, your sons, your daughters, your wives and your homes.“’ Amen?”

  There was an enthusiastic round of “Amens” from the congregation, which was usually known for its quiet and decorum. In fact, some of the gentlemen rose out of their seats and applauded. If they had not been restrained, JoBeth would not have been surprised if the famous “rebel yell” had been shouted to the rafters. Instead of feeling enthusiastic and aroused by this, JoBeth’s heart sank. As Wes had said, “We all pray to the same God, the Creator of us all.” So whom was God listening to?

  Christmas afternoon, JoBeth dressed to go to the family party at Holly Grove, wishing Wes could see her in the new dress her mother had made for her. It was red poplin, and it had a molded bodice with a froth of white lace at the throat, and wrists banded with black velvet ribbon. She gathered her hair into a crocheted black silk snood tied at the top of her head in a wide black velvet bow. As she slipped in her small freshwater pearl earrings, she tried not to think about where Wes might be spending this Christmas. She just prayed it wasn’t somewhere cold, miserable, and that he wasn’t in any danger. He had sent her a small picture of himself in uniform. He looked wonderful, manly and brave. She had spent hours studying it, but of course she could not show it to anyone. The blue uniform was hated by everyone she knew.

  The Cadys left for Holly Grove earlier than the three Davisons. Their carriage had been so crowded with goodies and gifts for Harvel and his large family that there had hardly been room for Aunt Josie’s skirt, let alone Johanna, JoBeth, and Shelby. The Cadys then sent their driver, Jonas, and carriage back for the trio.

  It was always a nostalgic trip for Johanna to visit her childhood home. As the carriage rounded the bend of the road and started up the holly-tree-lined driveway, dusk was just falling. They could see the candlelight from the windows of the house, glinting on the snow.

  “Oh, look, children! My, it looks lovely! Just like old times!” Johanna exclaimed, clutching JoBeth’s arm.

  JoBeth tried to put aside any melancholy thoughts and strived to join into the spirit of the day when she entered Holly Grove. The sound of laughter, children’s voices, and general merriment almost drowned out the greetings of Marilee, Harvel’s pretty wife, as she met them at the door. She looked like a happy bride instead of a wife of sixteen years with a half dozen children. Her radiance was due, JoBeth was sure, to the happiness she felt at her soldier husband’s homecoming. All her anxiety for his safety was put aside for one glorious evening. Harvel, looking fit and ruddy in his tailored gray uniform and sporting newly acquired gold captain’s bars, came out to welcome his cousins.

  “Happy Christmas!” he said heartily, kissing the cheek Johanna turned to him and pumping Shelby’s hand vigorously. Turning to JoBeth, he winked. “Just what we needed—a pretty girl to liven up the party for some of my bachelor officers. Come in, have some eggnog, and meet our guests.”

  The parlor was gaily decorated, the windows festooned with red bows and swags of evergreens. Red candles shone from candlesticks on the mantelpiece, between garlands of galax leaves and gilded pine cones. The Cady children and assorted cousins were running in and out, dodging and playing among the booted legs of the men and the billowing skirts of the ladies as people clustered in congenial chatting groups.

  The merry scene before her dismayed JoBeth instead of pleasing her. The parlor seemed to be filled with gray uniforms!

  She took a deep breath, willing herself to smile just as Blakely Spencer, hardly recognizable with a just-grown, curly beard, came up to her, gave her a hug and kiss, then grinned mischievously, “Rank has its privileges, and I’m doing the honors for our—dear departed one.”

  Startled by his words, JoBeth stared at him in confusion. Then, realizing what Blakely meant, she smiled. Blakely was always a cutup, never took anything seriously. Remembering this, she felt both relief and a new warmth for him. At least he did not harbor any animosity for Wes, no matter how the rest of the family felt. She knew Wes considered his twin cousins “almost brothers.”

  Blakely leaned closer and whispered, “How is the old scalawag?”

  She made a small grimace. “It’s a long time between letters,” she told him in a low voice. “I hope and pray he is all right.”

  “Probably having a jolly old Christmas for himself in Yankee land.” Blakely gave her a wink and squeezed her hand. “Now come along, JoBeth, I want you to meet someone.” Taking her by the arm, he led her toward the piano, where Dorinda, Munroe’s wife, was playing familiar carols that could hardly be heard above the din in the room. A gray-uniformed man, his back to them, was leaning on the piano. Blakely tapped him on the shoulder and announced, “Here she is!”

  The soldier turned around. A direct gaze from intensely blue eyes momentarily stunned her. Blakely introduced them.

  “JoBeth, may I present my brother-in-arms, Lieutenant Curtis Channing. Miss Johanna Elizabeth Davison.”

  The man introduced bowed slightly. “A pleasure, Miss Davison.” She acknowledged his greeting and murm
ured something she hoped was appropriate, thinking that surely this was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

  He might have stepped out of the pages of the romantic novels she used to ridicule. Tall and slim in his superbly tailored gray, he had coal black hair that fell in a wave across a high forehead. His features might have been considered too perfectly molded face too handsome, if it had not been for a tiny scar on his cheekbone. When he smiled, he revealed teeth that were very straight and white.

  “What did I tell you?” Blakely demanded, gleefully nudging Curtis Channing with his elbow. Then he said to JoBeth, “I kept telling Curtis that Hillsboro has the prettiest girls in North Carolina—for that matter, in the entire Confederate states.”

  Never taking his gaze off JoBeth, Curtis replied gallantly, “Indeed you did, sir, you most certainly did. But you understated the matter.”

  “Curtis is from Georgia, JoBeth, and had too short a leave to make it home, so I brought him along so he could see for himself. Now I guess you believe me!”

  “I certainly do,” Curtis smiled.

  Almost immediately the evening she had dreaded JoBeth began to enjoy. It had been such a long time since she had been with people her own age, exchanging light conversation, being flirted with, and even flirting a little herself. She almost felt guilty that she was having such a good time. Every once in a while during the evening, that thought would flash into her mind. In those fleeting moments, JoBeth hoped desperately that Wes had been fortunate enough to get leave and had perhaps gone to his grandmother’s home in Philadelphia.

  Actually, JoBeth hardly had time but to be in the present. Curtis Channing scarcely left her side for the rest of the evening. He was so attractive and charming, was such an amusing raconteur, that she was completely dazzled and entertained.