Freedom's Banner

by Freedom's Banner (retail) (epub)

  Mattie shook her head. ‘He won’t take it badly, Shake,’ she said, gently, then, as she lifted a hand to knock on the library door she hesitated for a moment. ‘Shake?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am?’

  ‘They – they are dead? There’s no mistake?’

  He shook his head tiredly, his face set in lines of grief and exhaustion. ‘No mistake, Miss Mattie. I was there. I done seen it. When Mister Will an’ Mister Johnny saw Mister Russ go down they waded into them bluebellies like they’d done lost their minds. They didn’t stan’ no chance, Miss Mattie.’

  She could see it as clearly as if she had been there. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m sure they didn’t,’ and knocked sharply upon the door.

  * * *

  Shake’s return, his eyewitness account of the disaster at Shiloh, at least had the effect of giving the tragedy substance. Until then Mattie had not realized how much hope she – and she presumed the others – had still secretly nursed, how unreal the whole business had seemed. Shake’s first-hand account of the Sherwoods’ deaths – and, incidentally, of the speedy desertion of Will’s and Russell’s servants, who had apparently taken the opportunity to flee north – laid all of that to rest; it made grief real, and very painful, but it also focused the mind. Will, Russ and Johnny were gone. In the fraught days that followed the confirmation, Mattie found she had no choice but to force her own grief for those lost young men, her own agonies about the unfinished, now unresolvable, relationship with her husband, to take second place to the struggle not to be dangerously overwhelmed by the very real crisis their loss had produced. Even her longing to be home, away from this torn and alien land, was utterly swamped by the everyday exigencies of keeping the grief-stricken household running, by the need to see order restored to Pleasant Hill. For order, certainly, had fled, and she sensed too well that peril might well stalk close on the heels of any unusual relaxing of discipline, whatever its cause.

  After Shake’s homecoming, Logan came out of his self-imposed isolation; but the fire and the heart had gone from him, and the youthful vigour that had so characterized him. For the first time Mattie realized, with a shock, that he was an old man. He spent most of the time sitting in a rocking chair upon the porch, whisky glass in hand, rocking slowly back and forth, his eyes, still pale and bright, looking with abstracted concentration towards the place where the long, winding drive emerged from its tunnel of oaks. Mattie wondered often if he watched, despite everything, to see one of his boys come riding up to the house. He ate little, and drank too much, though she never saw him anything but completely clear-headed. His great frame seemed to have shrunk. He would not, or perhaps could not, look at or speak to Joshua; his orders, such as they were, were relayed through Mattie. He received the sympathetic visits of friends and neighbours with a tart and touchy resignation; he made no-one welcome, and they did not stay for long. Through these outside contacts Mattie learned of the fall of Fort Pulaski to the Federal navy, and of the taking of New Orleans by the Yankees. Baton Rouge and Natchez followed; only Vicksburg now flew the Confederate flag over the waters of the Mississippi. If Vicksburg fell, the South would be split in two. A disastrous spring for the Confederacy was turning into an even more disastrous summer. Logan, apparently, did not care, any more than he cared that weeds grew in the cotton fields, that a fire, possibly deliberate, half destroyed one of the barns and reduced the garconnier to ashes, that even the house slaves were getting lazy. Only once did the old Logan reassert himself, and that was when Mattie unwisely mentioned Robert’s name. Knowing the dangers, she had so carefully planned what she might say that inevitably she did it clumsily. Logan, after all, still had a son~;~ should they not try to find him – to tell him of his brothers’ deaths?

  The great head came up, pale eyes in a gaunt face blazing. ‘Mattie, don’t mention that name to me. Ever. You hear me? Not ever! My sons are dead. All of them. I have no sons.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘And if the coward you just mentioned ever dares to set foot on Pleasant Hill land again, by Christ I’ll kill him myself.’ The words were flat.

  ‘Mr Sherwood – surely – you can’t –’

  He leaned forward, the old intemperate wrath at being challenged flaming in his face. ‘Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do, girl.’ He lifted a long, thin, but still strong hand, palm out, as if taking an oath. ‘I swear this to you, on everythin’ I’ve ever held holy – on my dead boys’ heads – if that craven runaway ever shows his face in this state of Georgia, never mind on my land, I’ll kill him, sure as eggs. I mean it. Hangin’s too good for his kind. I’m shamed to have sired him.’

  And Joshua? Are you ashamed of Joshua too? Mattie did not have the courage to voice the question; she believed in any case that she knew the answer. Logan Sherwood was too entrenched in his ways and beliefs to feel any shame at having bedded a slave girl, or kept his own son in bondage. His present antipathy to Joshua was purely and simply rooted in the fact that this other Sherwood son looked so like those young men who had ridden away in such high spirits, whole and healthy, such a very short while before. Sometimes she feared quite desperately that the old man might sell Joshua, or give him away, to spare himself the sight of him – and was certain, though he never said anything, that the same thought had occurred to Joshua himself. With no word, the two of them, Mattie and the slave, embarked upon a conspiracy to keep him from his master’s eyes. Mattie knew, if Logan did not, that without Joshua Pleasant Hill would fall apart, and for that reason – and for that reason alone, she told herself firmly – there could be no question of allowing Logan, in the irrational state of mind caused by his grief, to send him away.

  And so it was that throughout the hot and difficult days of that summer and on into the humid weeks of autumn, it was Joshua who ran the plantation, Joshua who supervised the work in the fields as yet another unsaleable crop of cotton came into bloom, Joshua who ordered ditches dug and fences mended, nursed the few cattle and hogs left to them through the summer heat, walked the fields of corn, potatoes and peas that would hopefully see the household through the winter; Joshua who knocked down a slave whose insolence was simply a symptom of the general disintegration of discipline on Pleasant Hill. Mattie it was who consulted with Logan, who conveyed to the rest of the household his occasional orders and suggestions, though in truth the man did not seem to know or care that his land was, despite Joshua’s efforts, suffering neglect and his people showing the first dangerous stirrings of discontent. For Mattie too that summer was a hard one. The strong hand that had held the plantation together was gone; and with it had gone the efficiency and obedience she now realized she had taken so much for granted. She could spend the whole day supervising a task that should have taken a couple of hours, to find it still not done, and yet never be able to put her finger on the reason why. She gave orders that were forgotten, or ignored. Dust accumulated in corners and the store of candles and of flour ran out, far quicker than they should have done. She suspected thieving. And, each night, there was the lonely room to face; the guilt, the grief, the endless, unanswerable questions. The small, much-thumbed book of Shelley’s poems, as much a torment as a comfort.

  And then, there was Cissy.

  Cissy’s grief, though undoubtedly genuine, was entirely self-centred. She saw and understood nothing of the crippling blow that had been dealt Logan, and was openly scornful of any tears Mattie might shed. What had Mattie to cry about? Why, she and Johnny hadn’t even written to each other in months, everyone knew that – whilst she, Cissy, and Will – such a train of thought invariably led to hysterical outbursts, which took ever larger doses of laudanum to calm. And even as time and youth worked their alchemy and the sharpest edge of her grief was blunted, her whole concern continued to be for her own plight. What was she to do? A widow, for goodness’ sake, before her eighteenth birthday – and with this dreadful war going on – how was she ever to find another beau? Who would care for her, who would protect her now?

  ‘O
h, Cissy, do stop!’ Mattie cried one hot and trying September day, thoroughly losing her temper at last, dropping the sheet she was darning and putting her hands to her ears, as the whole litany was repeated again. ‘Anyone would think you were the only one to suffer so! Don’t you know what’s going on out there? Thousands of men have died! Thousands! And still are dying! God only knows how long this awful business is going to go on! And all you can think of – all you can talk about – oh, I don’t know how you can be so selfish!’

  She was stopped by a screech of indignation. ‘I, selfish? I? Why, may you drop dead where you sit, Mattie Sherwood! Everyone knows how miserable you made poor Johnny! An’ the way you try to order everyone about – oh, I declare, you are the most detestable creature!’ Cissy’s voice lifted, edged with hysteria, and she hauled the inevitable handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘Just because you don’t care what you look like – just because you don’t mind seein’ no-one, talkin’ to no-one from one week’s end to the next, doesn’t mean I have to be the same! Stuck here with you an’ that damn’ dog an’ a mad old man for company –’

  ‘Cissy!’

  ‘Why can’t we go live in Macon? At least there’s some life there! Why must we stay out here, in the middle of nowhere?’ She was crying in earnest now. Mattie noted in some exasperation and not for the first time that Cissy even managed to do that to the prettiest effect. ‘Nothin’ will ever happen here. Nothin’! My life’s over, Mattie!’ Her voice rose to a wail again. ‘Oh, it isn’t fair! It isn’t fair! Liddie – go fetch me my medicine –’

  Mattie never knew whether the overdose was deliberate or not. Thinking about it later, she gave the child the benefit of the doubt and decided not; at the time it hardly mattered. All she knew was that her young sister-in-law lay as still and pale as death upon her bed, the hysterical Liddie shrieking and crying beside her.

  ‘Shut up, Liddie! Take her other arm – no, I can manage – the child weighs nothing. Go and find Lucy quickly, you hear? And Joshua –’

  ‘I doan’ know where he is, Miss Mattie –-’

  ‘Just find him! Fast!’

  ‘But he might be out there in the fiel’s – I doan’ like goin’ into the fiel’s – them hands are downright –’ Liddie backed away smartly as Mattie turned on her. ‘All right, all right, Miss Mattie – I’s goin’ –’

  Mattie hauled Cissy to her feet. ‘Cissy, wake up! Cissy!’

  The girl moaned, her head rolling.

  Awkwardly, Mattie slapped her. ‘Cissy!’

  Cissy coughed and mumbled incoherently.

  Mattie swung her around, caught her by the shoulders, shaking her. ‘Wake up! Cissy, wake up!’

  ‘Miss Mattie?’ It was Lucy at the door. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Get over to the Infirmary, quickly. Castor oil. Lots of it. Cissy!’

  They brought her through it in a squalid and panic-ridden mess of vomit and tears. Later, filthy and exhausted, Mattie stood on the balcony outside, breathing the stifling autumn air and trying to control her shaking legs; trying too not to think of what might have happened if Liddie had not found the girl when she had.

  ‘You all right, Miss Mattie?’

  She turned her head. Joshua stood beside her.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Thank God Liddie found her when she did.’

  He nodded.

  In the room behind them Lucy’s quiet voice spoke, Liddie’s light one replied, sharp and quarrelsome.

  Joshua stirred in the darkness.

  ‘You should get some rest, Miss Mattie. You’ve been up all night.’

  She slanted a quick and weary smile over her shoulder, then turned, unwarily, to face him. ‘So have you.’

  He shrugged a little.

  From the compound beneath them came the sound of singing, soft and melancholy. The sudden and telling quiet that had fallen between them as she had lifted her eyes to his stretched on. Too tired to resist it, she leaned against the wooden rail, watching him, trying to fathom the look in that intent, high-boned face. ‘Rest, Joshua,’ she said at last, softly. ‘You’ve been working too hard. We all have.’

  He neither moved nor spoke. For a single, outrageous moment she was tempted to the impossible: to take that small step forward, into arms she was certain would open to her, would hold and protect her. He moved, very slightly, and she caught her breath.

  ‘ –good-for-nothin’ little cat that you are!’ Cissy’s door flew open. Lucy stalked out onto the balcony breathing righteous anger. ‘Miss Mattie – you done told me to help nurse Miss Cissy or you didn’t? You done tell this no-good Liddie that!’

  Mattie took a long breath. Turned from Joshua. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Can’t the two of you get on for two full minutes at a time?’ Behind her she could still sense the man’s quiet, powerful presence. It was with some relief that she heard his light footfalls as he slipped away down the stairs and into the house. ‘Liddie, I’d have thought you’d have been pleased to have some help!’

  * * *

  Cissy stayed in bed for three days. On the fourth she was busy in her room – evidently, from the amount of coming and going she was engendering, recovered. On the fifth she appeared on the porch, still a little pale but dressed fetchingly for travel, albeit in the grey and lilac trimmed with black that had been her concession to mourning, and with a tall young male slave and a nervous-looking Liddie behind her, the one carrying a small trunk and the other a large bag. Mattie, who had been reading to Logan a week-old newspaper – which contained, at last, a little good news – looked up in surprise. ‘Cissy? Where are you going?’

  ‘Home,’ Cissy said serenely, though there was a wary defiance about her. ‘’Lijah, put the trunk down there, will you please? And go ask Dandy to bring round the carriage. Tell him we’re goin’ to the train station in Macon.’ She turned back to Mattie, ignoring Logan completely. ‘I’ll send for the rest of my things later.’

  ‘Home?’ Mattie repeated, faintly.

  ‘To Mama and Papa.’ Cissy’s voice was light but her chin was set stubbornly. ‘Home,’ she repeated.

  ‘But – but Cissy – you can’t go running around the country on your own!’

  ‘I shan’t be on my own. ’Lijah and Liddie are coming with me. They’re both mine. I brought them from N’Orleans with me.’ She cast a small glance of mixed fright and defiance at Logan Sherwood.

  He had picked up the newspaper and appeared to be taking no interest in the proceedings at all. ‘Indeed they are,’ he said, calmly, from behind the spread pages. ‘And indeed you did.’

  Mattie stood up. ‘But, Cissy –’

  ‘Let her go.’ Logan Sherwood neither looked up nor raised his voice; but the words cut across Mattie’s like a blade.

  Cissy threw him a look of sheer, unadulterated dislike.

  Mattie was struck to silence; the two girls stood so, with Liddie fidgeting behind them, for what seemed an age before the small two-wheeled carriage drawn by an elderly, slow-moving horse who until the war had been honourably pensioned off to grass, came around the corner and drew to a halt in front of the steps.

  ‘Well,’ Cissy said, very brightly, ‘I’ll be goin’, then.’ She sounded, Mattie thought bemusedly, as if she were going into Macon for a few yards of ribbon. She proffered her cheek to Cissy’s soft lips, watched as Logan, with no show of emotion, did the same. ‘My Papa will be in touch with you, I expect,’ Cissy said.

  He tipped his head to look at her, forbiddingly, at last. ‘Oh?’

  ‘About –’ she hesitated, delicately, cleared her throat ‘– about anything that – that may be coming to me – through Will, you understand?’

  Mattie held her breath.

  ‘Get out, Miss,’ Logan Sherwood said.

  The last Mattie saw of her young sister-in-law was a straight back and the curling grey plume of her bonnet that waved in the breeze of the carriage’s movement.

  ‘Good riddance,’ Logan said, quietly, beside her. ‘I never could abide that sil
ly child, for all poor Will was so fond.’ The carriage turned the corner of the drive and was lost to sight. Woodsmoke drifted on the air above the slave quarters. He tilted his head for a moment, as if listening. ‘Are they really gone, Mattie? My boys? Will, and Russ, and Johnny?’

  She reached a hand to cover his.

  He allowed it to rest there for the space of a breath. Shook it off. ‘Sol? You there, boy? Another tot, if you please.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Shiloh was, of course, by no means the last nor even the bloodiest of the engagements that were fought with increasing bitterness and ferocity in this fraternal struggle. Indeed, less than six months after Shiloh, on an embattled ridge at Sharpsburg, what was to prove the bloodiest day of the war claimed over twenty thousand casualties, five thousand of them killed; and again the result was indecisive, again no end to the slaughter was in sight. For a while, in December of that same year, after the great Southern victory at Fredricksburg that saved the Southern capital of Richmond and sent Grant’s armies running for their lives, the outlook for the Confederacy seemed optimistic; but as battle after battle was fought and more and more young men died or were disablingly wounded, it became ever more difficult to ignore the obvious. If the war could not be brought to a swift and successful end the South, like so many of her young men, would simply bleed to death. No amount of personal valour, no amount of fierce and patriotic dedication, no amount of sacrifice could produce men, military equipment or the basic necessities of life from nothing. For every man who fell in the Federal armies, there was another, grumbling but whole, to take his place. For every captured gun or spent shell there were factories working overtime to produce more. In the South it was a different story. The resources, both human and material, were finite, and it could only be a matter of time before they ran out. Grant well understood that when he brought to an abrupt halt the until-now civilized exchange of prisoners; his own lost men he could manage without, and if his action left them imprisoned in a South that was finding it harder and harder to feed its own people, let alone enemy prisoners, so be it. For the South every captured man unretumed was a loss as crippling as a death.