by Pat Wahler
I thought of the war in a detached way—as though reading a story—until the true meaning of it fell upon my family. Months earlier, Robert had returned to his sweetheart in Kentucky, but John and David tossed a plan to join the Confederate militia back and forth like a ball, while grinning and slapping each other on the back. They were eager to leave and strike a blow for tyranny, and their greatest fear was that the war would be over before they had a chance to go. All the young men of my acquaintance chafed to leave home and fight. They spoke of the conflict as if it were nothing more than a thrilling horse race they couldn’t wait to win.
When Lucy and I ventured into town, even the women who purchased supplies at the mercantile spoke with confidence of triumph. Papa cautioned us to be careful what we said, although most of our friends were sympathetic as we were to the South. Yet as best I could tell, neither side considered the possibility of losing. Only my best friend, Catherine, whispered to me she heard if the Federals beat the South, they would swoop down, confiscate our property, and force loyal Southerners to pay the debts the Northerners, themselves, had incurred as reparation.
“Intolerable,” I whispered back.
All our friends agreed, yet despite the fever-pitch of patriotism, the day John and David rode away, I trembled with fear for them. Mama kissed her sons and prepared a small bag of food to tuck into their saddlebags, white-faced but stoic as any soldier. Papa shook his boys’ hands and murmured a prayer.
David saw me dab my eyes and gave me a swift hug. “Don’t worry, Zee. We’ll lick the Federals in no time and be back home before you even noticed we were gone.”
I prayed this would be truth. Nightmares of cannon balls, homes burned to the ground, and cruel despotism haunted my sleep. I resented President Lincoln’s goal to preserve the Union at all costs and wondered why anyone would willingly set such a fire.
We watched my brothers whoop and wave their hats as they galloped out of sight, horse hooves kicking up clouds of dust that drifted and then dissipated in the air. When we could no longer see them, Mama’s upraised arm dropped to her side, and she took to her bed. Muffled sobs soon followed. I couldn’t bear to hear her sorrow, and left the house to walk past fields green with new growth. A path accented by purple prairie clover and bright red butterfly weed calmed my spirit as weariness eased my body. Yet nothing could still my brain. Even opening a book didn’t soothe me. Papa said the times called for faith, but my own faith seemed to be sorely tested.
We were just learning to navigate around the hole left by my brothers’ absence when stories came of bandits trampling across the border from Kansas to Missouri. They appeared to care not a whit for the life or property of anyone considered a Southern sympathizer. Some called them Jayhawkers, and they were indeed corrupt desperadoes. I heard Mama whisper to Aunt Susan about them looting and burning the entire town of Osceola in St. Clair County, leaving every building in smoldering ruins. That terrible act against innocents became a catalyst that compelled even more men to ride away and fight for the cause.
Southern men answered Jayhawker attacks by forming their own guerilla groups. The Federals learned to fear Bushwhackers, men who operated in small squads from forests and backcountry areas. Cunning strategies and fast horses helped them ambush Northern sympathizers. They disrupted mail and interrupted war communications. Bushwhackers made it their business to exact bloody revenge for Jayhawker atrocities.
In a letter dated May 1863—hastily scribbled by Aunt Zerelda from nearby Kearney, and delivered through a passing friend—we learned that my cousin Frank had joined the Bushwhackers under William Quantrill. She wrote of pride in her eldest son and desperate worry over young Jesse’s impatience to follow in his older brother’s footsteps.
“I hope Zerelda can keep Jesse at home. He’s far too young for such a dangerous life.” Mama shook her head. “Why matters cannot be decided in peace instead of by fighting, I will never understand.”
As skirmishes near us became more frequent, Lucy and I came to call the simple act of going outside a fearsome adventure. When sitting on the porch to catch a cool breeze, we could sometimes hear the faraway pop of gunfire. Once a cannon exploded so loudly we both jumped and craned our necks, hoping to discover what had occurred. Some of our neighbors were curious enough to climb upon a rooftop, hoping to catch a glimpse of a battle.
Papa sternly forbade us to try anything so foolish. “Men are dying. It is our duty to pray for them, not watch what happens as though they fight for our entertainment.”
I thought of my brothers, John and David, somewhere far away and understood.
Although most of us believed the war would not last long, each day and week that passed told us we were wrong. Thanks to our hidden supplies, we always ate, although not as heartily as before. Since we did not own slaves and were far from town, Papa thanked God we were not considered worthy of attack, although a few of our things mysteriously disappeared, such as food growing in the garden, most of our chickens, and all our livestock except Lully, our old swaybacked mare. Yet this was a small inconvenience, and we were grateful no harm came to our us, our boarders, or our home.
Some of our neighbors were not so fortunate. A note came that my friend Catherine’s sweetheart had been killed in Tennessee. Our neighbor’s son, Benjamin, died in Kentucky. A young man named Philip, with whom I once shared a waltz, was reported missing in action. I lived in terror of hearing similar news about my brothers or cousins.
Those were the days when I first understood the truth of events that were like twisting winds or trembling earth. I could do nothing but learn to endure them or madness would surely follow.
By the time the war began, all of our boarders had fled Clay County, except Mr. Locke and a widow woman named Mrs. Parkinson. Neither of them complained about the less hearty meals, for we knew Our Glorious Cause required sacrifice from citizens as well as soldiers.
As I approached the age of eighteen years, Mr. Locke began to stare at me in a manner more bothersome than the sound of gunfire. I charitably conceded that if he shaved off his tobacco-stained whiskers, he’d look remarkably like a portrait I’d once seen of George Washington, although our first president had keener eyes and a much kinder face. My cheeks flushed every time Mr. Locke’s bespectacled gaze narrowed and followed me, for I held fast to a young girl’s dreams of one special beau. So far my hopes had come to naught, for all our young men had gone away to fight, and I could only dream about what the future held.
Mama came to me one afternoon when I was washing dishes, her eyes hard with purpose. “Mr. Locke spoke to Papa. He has no family near and needs a companion for his old age. Mr. Locke is impressed by your energy and intelligence and would very much like for you to become his wife. He is willing to build a home for you or even to stay here after marriage, if you wish. Papa and I discussed his offer and believe this would be a good match. He has sufficient money for security and is a reliable man who would make a good husband for you.”
I’d often considered what it would be like to have a husband kiss me, but the thought of William Locke’s lips on mine made me shudder. “No, Mama. I don’t wish to marry anyone for the sake of convenience or comfort.”
“Zee, we did not raise you to be disrespectful. Your papa and I know what’s best. We’d like to see you make a match with someone dependable who will take good care of you.”
Rebellion burned in my soul. I lifted my chin to Mama and told her exactly what I thought. “You married Papa at your uncle’s bidding. That was fine for you, but no one shall make me marry for any reason other than love.”
Mama glared at me, two spots of color burning high on her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say more, but as though considering her approach, she took a measured breath and then walked away. Yet even though Papa told me he spoke to Mr. Locke of my refusal; the persistent man continued his bold stares. I hoped Papa hadn’t led him to believe I would ever change my mind, and I did my best to ignore his attention. To my other daily supplic
ations lifted to God, I added the boon of a man entering my life who would sweep me far away from the terrors of war and the loneliness of isolation. For now, even Lucy had fallen in love, and she spent her time dreaming of a wedding, carrying the precious letters her soldier sent to her.
On a late summer night with air holding the promise of rain, a single rider thundered toward the boarding house, silencing the cicadas and tree frogs. Uncle Thomas and Aunt Susan were away, so Papa put Lucy and Nancy in charge of hiding Mama’s silver, while he went outside with a loaded pistol clutched in his hand. Unnerved by such a sight, I stood next to Mama at the door and peered into the darkness.
When the tall rider dismounted, Papa’s shoulders loosened. He embraced the man, and I followed Mama outside. My cousin, Frank James, stood before us, coated in dust from hard travel, his eyes hooded. Heavy stubble covered a face much thinner than I remembered.
“The Federals just raided Ma’s farm. They whipped Jesse senseless and made a game of hanging Reuben.”
Zerelda had married Dr. Samuel Reuben five years before the war began. Such a deed as Frank reported shocked me even more when I remembered the kindness I always found in Reuben’s eyes. “Is he dead?” I blurted out the question.
“Not dead, but hurt bad enough. They let him dangle from a tree limb, lowered him down, and then hung him again over and over until he was gasping for breath. They’re after information on where to find any of Quantrill’s troops. The Federals watched Reuben choking from the end of a rope until Ma took Jesse’s Bowie knife and cut him down.” Frank’s mouth turned up in a weary smile of admiration. “Then she gave the Feds bloody hell before tending to Reuben.”
“Oh, no!” Mama’s hand went to her throat.
“There’re bruises and rope burns all over his neck, but at least he’s alive. Jesse’s young. He’ll heal in time, but now he’s more eager than ever to ride with me. I don’t think Ma can hold him back much longer.”
Papa shook his head in disbelief. “It seems there are no honorable boundaries in war. Did they finally leave Zerelda in peace?”
Frank snorted. “There’s no such thing as peace with Federals. They arrested Ma and Reuben and hauled them both off to jail. Kept them in a cold, stone cell until they signed the Oath of Allegiance to the Union. God knows what will come next. I wanted to tell you, so you could keep your eyes open.”
“We will pray for them and for you,” Papa said.
I scurried inside the house and returned carrying a bag filled with Mama’s fresh biscuits for Frank. He took it, thanked me, and then jumped back up into the saddle, tugged on the reins, and urged his chestnut gelding into a gallop. I watched as he disappeared through the distant woods.
Mama put her head on Papa’s chest, and his arms went around her. My own head buzzed as I contemplated the viciousness of war. I feared for the safety of Reuben, Jesse, and Zerelda, and wondered if someday, a troop of nameless soldiers might descend upon our home and do whatever they wished.
None of us were surprised a few months later when word came that Jesse had run away from home to fight with Frank. After what he’d seen and endured, no one could blame him.
With the arrival of 1865, our world had become war-weary. Optimism had long faded. Early advantages gained by the South disappeared and supplies dwindled to a trickle. Hope for victory dimmed as each day passed. To avoid feeling completely helpless, I took on the ritual of praying over everything I did, whether scrubbing clothes worn thin and well-patched, boiling potato dumplings until they were soft, or beating the dirt from a braided rug. Maybe if God grew weary of hearing my entreaties, the fighting would end. I’d abandoned any opinion over who won or lost as long as our men could come home. We’d heard nothing from my brothers in many months and didn’t know whether they lived or were lying by the side of a road.
Near the end of April, our neighbor, Mr. Hickman, rode to see us. His horse cantered to the barn, and he reined it in long enough to speak a few moments to Papa before spurring the animal away in a cloud of dust. I saw Papa bow his head and drop to his knees in the dirt. Fearing new evil tidings, I ran to him and rested my hand on his shoulder. He looked up with anguish carved deep into the lines on his face.
My mouth dried up like an afternoon in August. “What is it, Papa?”
“The war is over. General Lee has surrendered.”
And suddenly I was crying. I thought about the past four years and how many men would never return to their mothers, sweethearts, or wives. Those lucky enough to come back would find their homes burned, crops trampled, property destroyed, and livestock stolen. The cost in lives and property—and pride—had all been for nothing. War brought many things, but none of them were glorious.
Yet a glimmer of hope stirred in me. I knelt beside Papa in the dirt. “I pray this means we will soon see John and David back home.”
“As do I, daughter, but anger runs deep.” His voice softened to a whisper. “There is more to tell. Not long after surrender, Lincoln was shot and killed by an assassin, a Southern sympathizer. I fear what the Federals will do once they reclaim the South and seek their revenge.”
3
Only a few weeks after we received the news that ended the fight for states’ rights, Mama and I were in the yard, pulling dry clothes off the line, when we saw two men with heavy beards trudge along the road toward the boarding house. Mama straightened and shaded her eyes to stare toward them.
I threw down a clean shirt, poised to flee. “Shall I find Papa?”
“No, I don’t think they mean us any harm. Look how slowly they move, as though they’ve been walking a long time.”
We watched until the men grew closer, and we recognized the faded uniforms as ragtag Confederate butternut. The toes of their boots were worn clean through, and one had an empty jacket sleeve pinned up high.
The taller man addressed Mama. “Are you Miz Mimms?” At her nod, he continued. “A friend asked me and my brother to deliver this message to you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mama took a piece of dirty paper folded to a small square and slipped it in her apron pocket. “Would you like to sit and rest a spell? We can get you some food if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am. We are right hungry. Thirsty too, and that’s a fact. Been walking a long time, clear from Kentucky, but we’re almost back to home.”
Mama and I sliced bread and brought a dipper filled with cool water for them to share. The men sat in the shade of the porch and stretched their legs, wolfing down the bread as though ravenous.
“Have you run into any trouble on your way?” I could not keep the thought of my brothers traveling alone and in such a bedraggled state from my mind.
“Mostly just folks tired and hungry as we are. Everybody has the same idea. They all want to get back to their families, and there ain’t much food to share along the way.”
The shorter soldier nodded. “There’s a lot of homes and barns burned to ashes. We’re hoping things will be steady back at our farm.”
“I hope so too, and wish you both Godspeed in your journey,” Mama said.
The taller man swiped a sleeve across his mouth and nodded before he and his brother pushed themselves to their feet and set off to continue their determined trek.
When the men were out of earshot, Mama pulled the paper from her pocket and carefully unfolded it. Her brows pinched together as she read aloud.
Dear Aunt,
I write these words with a heavy heart. Jesse was riding in to surrender with the other men of his troop in Lexington when Federals started shooting. One of their bullets caught my brother in the chest. He’s bad hurt and too weak to make the trip to Ma and Reuben in Nebraska. I’m counting on you to take care of your nephew until he gets well enough to go home. We’ll be coming from Lafayette County, though I don’t know how long it will take us to get there.
This from your nephew, Frank James
She lowered the paper. “We need to prepare a sickroom.”
I c
hewed my lip. How badly was he wounded? Then it occurred to me. Jesse must be in mortal danger indeed, for him to be moved to us rather than his mother’s new home in Nebraska. Zerelda and Reuben had been forced from their farm in Kearney after the General Order was signed in January. It banished anyone giving aid to the guerilla rebels. Zerelda’s outspoken approval of her sons’ activities, and the shelter she offered them and their friends, put the Samuel family near the top of the list of those sent into exile. Zerelda, Reuben, my cousin Susan, and the Samuel children fled to Rulo in southeastern Nebraska, not far across the border from their beloved farm. In a letter filled with venomous rage and anguish, Zerelda had begged Uncle Thomas and Papa to check on her property whenever they could, declaring they would return to Missouri as soon as the Federals allowed them to do so.
I burned with curiosity while tearing linen cloth into bandages, all the while keeping an eye on the road leading to our home. Adding to my sense of unease, William Locke continued his thinly veiled efforts to be closer to me than I wished. One day he went so far as to touch my arm, allowing his moist fingers to linger on my skin. I stepped away and froze him with a stare before marching from the room. His gaze made bile rise in my throat and reminded me of the way a buyer examined a milk cow. I prayed he’d grow weary of waiting for me to change my mind and take leave of the boarding house once and for all.
As days passed, the razor-sharp edge of anticipating Jesse’s arrival dulled. I kept myself busy in the kitchen with Mama and Aunt Susan, and with the endless chores of housekeeping. Once the sun set and the evening cooled, Lucy and I walked outside, where we could speak freely.
A full moon high in the sky lit our path while grass cushioned our feet and silenced our steps. Crickets chirped their summer song, and trees smelled of damp wood near the pond where a bullfrog bellowed mournfully for a mate.