Annie blew on the embers of last night’s fire. She slowly added wood to bring it to a full blaze and backed against the screen to stop her shivering. It was still dark, and the flames lit her room with a rosy, dancing light that cheered her. In preparation for the cold, Annie had carefully laid out her clothes to warm by the fire. Once she donned all the layers, she’d be fine, but getting them on would be a race against the chill. She puffed out some air again. This time she couldn’t see mist from her breath. Time to dress. No dawdling.
Hurriedly, she pulled on wool stockings plus ruffled drawers cinched at her waist and below her knees. On top of her shift she fitted her corset. That, at least, would not have to be tied so tightly today, since Rachel wasn’t there to yank the back draw-strings to strangling. Still, it was a day for fancy dress, and Annie dutifully stepped into her cagelike crinoline—a bell of oak-split circles and spines flaring out from the waist to make her hoop skirt four feet wide in diameter at the floor.
She was dressed enough now to survive washing. On the marble-top table beside her bed was a porcelain pitcher full of frigid water. A blast of wind rattled her windows. “O Wind, / If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?” Annie mumbled a line from the poet Shelley as she scrubbed her face and brushed her teeth with a hog’s bristle brush and ground-up charcoal from the fire ashes.
She picked up her favorite outfit, a dark green princess dress, a one-piece cashmere gown with straight, tight sleeves and a line of buttons from her throat down to the floor. It was one of the few dresses Annie wore that made her truly proud of her red hair and her green eyes—coloring that usually called out “country Irish” but in this dress looked elegant. Along the collar, cuffed wrists, and hem were lines of crimson roses Miriam had embroidered. It was beautiful work, displaying her mother’s needlework artistry.
“’Twould do you well, darling, to be learning the craft yourself,” Miriam had said the first time Annie put it on and ooohed at its prettiness.
As Annie leaned over to fasten the final ten buttons, her corset cut off her breath. She straightened up sharply, feeling light-headed. As her head cleared, Annie caught her image in her bureau mirror. “Oh, no,” she cried, and stepped forward to look again.
She’d grown. Her wrists were well exposed beyond her dress sleeves, making Annie appear even ganglier. She looked to the floor. The hem was too short as well, but at least the edge of her petticoat made it look finished. She sighed. She didn’t want to change her clothes. It wasn’t Christmas without wearing this dress. How could she have gotten taller? She was going to be sixteen next month, a complete adult. She even knew of a few of the county girls who’d married this year at sixteen, worried their beaus might be killed in the war. And here she was still sprouting like a toddler.
If you are such an adult, find an adult solution, Annie could hear Miriam say. She thought for a moment and then turned down the sleeve cuffs, hiding her wrists but her mother’s clever stitching as well. Can’t be helped, thought Annie. Still, her eyes filled with disappointed tears. There’d be no replacing this dress, not for a long time, not until the war and the blockades were ended. Things just weren’t as she’d expected them to be when she became old enough to have such pretty garments. She’d so looked forward to barbecues and picnics and Christmas balls and courtship walks with bits of recited poetry. There were no balls scheduled for this holiday. All the men were gone. There might be some smaller gatherings that she would enjoy. But it wasn’t the same.
Annie brushed her waist-length hair for ten minutes to make it gleam. It helped that she had already washed it twice that month with an herbal rinse to make it shine. With Rachel’s help she might thread colorful ribbons into the two thick braids she’d make from the sides of her hair before looping and pinning them like a garland at the back of her head. As it was, she’d just do the usual everyday hairdo of Southern women.
Sometimes Annie wished that she could just let it hang down, loose and free, like Angel’s magnificent mane and tail, but society had required Annie to put it up ever since she was a child. She dutifully parted her hair into three sections—straight down the middle toward her nose from the crown of her head and then side to side behind each ear. The back part she gathered and coiled into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck. The two front sections Annie braided and then rolled back to wrap around the bun. Most women had to tuck ratts—wads of hair the size of small potatoes created from strands left on hairbrushes—underneath the side braids. This was to add fullness to what could be a severe hairstyle, to frame and flatter the face. Annie didn’t need such false additions—her hair was thick and full and, except for the color, a source of some vanity for her.
Taking one last look in the mirror, Annie slipped a prettily carved tortoiseshell comb into her creation. She smiled. Thank God, she hadn’t inherited those carrot-colored freckles that Jamie had. Her skin was alabaster pale unless she blushed. In terms of looks, Annie was somewhere in between Laurence’s fair gentrified elegance and Jamie’s lep-rechaunlike wildness. She would do. She threw a chenille shawl across her shoulders and gently pulled open her door to keep it from snapping and awakening Miriam.
“Christmas gift!” a merry voice whispered.
Annie let out a little shriek before recognizing the figure in the dark. “Laurence! Where did you come from?”
“Oh, none of that, Annie. I caught you at Christmas gift.” Laurence referred to the tradition of slaves being given special treats if they surprised their masters on Christmas Day, a game that had become part of white families’ celebrations as well.
“Now you owe me a present!”
“Oh, Laurence, we were so worried about you.” Annie flung her arms around her big brother. He was covered with dust and his gentle face was bristly with an unshaved beard, but he was about the best Christmas sight she’d ever had.
“You and Mother have to stop worrying about me so,” Laurence told her in the parlor as they sat in front of the fire. “There are going to be more battles, and ones a lot worse than that little exchange in Dranesville. I won’t always be able to get word to you that I’m all right.”
He turned to watch the fire. The Yule log Isaac had lit last night had been soaked in herbs and wine, and it filled the room with a wonderful musky smell. Dawn was just beginning to seep through the sky. They were the only ones up. Exhausted, Laurence had barely touched the bread and milk Annie had brought him. He and Sam had ridden most of the night to get home in time for Christmas morning. Laurence was thin and ashen, despite his joking and holiday cheer. “There’s camp fever in Centreville,” Laurence told Annie. “Measles, mumps, and typhoid. It was good to get some clean, cold air in me.”
Sitting beside the fire, Laurence had begun to slump and his eyes to droop. He was falling asleep. Annie crept up to him and tried to pull off his boots so he could rest in comfort. His eyes popped open. “You don’t need to do that, Annie,” he mumbled. “Can’t sleep on picket duty.”
Annie couldn’t tell if he was talking in his sleep or not. “Let me take care of you for once, Corporal Sinclair,” she whispered. She jokingly adopted an old-world accent as she pulled. “What would Mother be saying if she saw you here in your old filthy boots on a Christmas morn.”
His eyes were shut but he smiled wanly as he responded, “That’s Lieutenant Sinclair to you, Lady Liberty. Made second lieutenant after Lewinsville, when they made Stuart a general. I think your antics had something to do with my promotion. Not again, though, Annie, you hear? No more of those…” Laurence was softly snoring.
Annie settled his boots by the fire and covered him with her shawl before she tiptoed out of the room to wake Miriam and give her the good news.
Miriam was dressed in fifteen minutes and down by the fire, sitting opposite Laurence as he slept, tears of relief slowly seeping down her face.
“Now, about that gift you owe me, Annie.” Laurence leaned back and put his arms behind his head. “I did catch you at Christmas gift, you know.”
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Annie laughed. It had been a lovely Christmas dinner, even though their “groaning board” didn’t groan with as much weight this year. They’d feasted on wild turkey, cranberry sauce, pigeon pie, rice, sweet potatoes, and turnips. They’d used their last bit of sugar for a cake. Now they sat around the Christmas tree with its decorations of bright ribbons, paper dolls, candles, and popcorn strings that she, Rachel, and Miriam had made. Miriam had given all the servants their Christmas presents—ten dollars apiece and bolts of new calico she had somehow managed to find and buy—and sent them off to enjoy the eggnog that Aunt May had made for them. It was time for presents.
But did Annie have to go first? The shirt she’d made for Laurence’s uniform was far from perfect. She’d sewn the pockets on upside down at first and even stitched a sleeve closed somehow. Miriam had had to finish it for her. “Well, it’s not much, Laurence,” she said as she handed him her package.
Laurence was out of his dirty uniform, dressed instead in his Sunday best: cravat tied at his throat, silk waistcoat, and long coat with tails. He looked quite the country gentleman. The checked flannel shirt she’d made for him looked completely wrong. But he seemed to love it. “It’s cold out there in camp, Annie. Thank you. I need something like this.”
“Can’t they keep you warm, son?” Miriam asked.
“Well, we’re all huddled together in log cabins in Centreville, about the worst construction you’ve ever seen, Mother, all slapdashed together by people like me who haven’t the first notion of how to build them correctly. Entire forests were leveled and some of the boys took fence rails from the surrounding farms to build them. I’m afraid Aunt Molly’s fences were torn down and used before I arrived in camp. General Beauregard wasn’t exactly subtle with the locals. He ordered the muddy roads corduroyed after Manassas. They did it mostly with townspeople’s fences and boards from their barns. I’m glad he’s not in charge anymore.”
“Poor Molly. That’s shameful behavior,” said Miriam.
“Yes, ma’am.” Laurence nodded. “We just weren’t prepared for all this, Mother. The Confederacy is still trying to get itself ready for a real war. Oh, we’re doing fine in cavalry skirmishes because we all grew up riding and we know this country. But we’re not ready for the big gun battles that are coming. Why, we don’t have half the arms we need. Do you know what we have put up to guard the Centreville fort? Quaker guns. Know what they are?”
Miriam and Annie shook their heads.
“Logs cut to look like cannon from a distance. We’re hanging on through clever deception. Do you know how Stuart confuses the enemy sometimes?”
Again they shook their heads.
“By having us cut trees and branches and drag them behind our horses, so the clouds of dust we cause make it appear as if there is infantry marching with us.” He laughed. “Old Jeb, he’s a clever one. But we can’t fool them like that forever.” He grew quiet and added, more to himself than to them, “And my saber isn’t much good against their revolvers and carbines.”
That’s when Jamie jumped up and ran from the room.
“What’s that child up to now?” Miriam asked. Jamie had been unusually quiet all day, shadowing Laurence wherever he went.
Annie had a pretty good idea of what he was doing, and she knew Miriam would be horrified. But just as she was about to tattle on him, Jamie dashed back in, holding aloft the revolver.
“Here, Laurence, I have a present for you, too. Something that will help you win this war against the Northern invaders.” Jamie had obviously built up a speech as he ran to his room to retrieve the six-shooter. He was all puffed up about it.
Slowly, Laurence stood. His voice was low as he asked, “Boy, where did you get that?”
“Off a dead Yankee. Isn’t it grand?”
“Jamie!” Miriam gasped.
“Oh, I didn’t see him, Mother. Edward went to the battlefield and collected all sorts of things—hats, insignias, buttons, and four of these revolvers. Take it, Laurence. Kill some Yankees with it for me.”
Jamie was too impressed with himself to really notice Laurence’s face, but Annie did. She’d never seen it look so cold or so disgusted. “You mean to tell me, James, that Edward scavengered these things from fallen soldiers?”
Jamie stopped prancing and waving the gun.
“Like a buzzard? He cut buttons from their uniforms as they rotted? For souvenirs? Boy, I don’t want you ever playing with this Edward again.”
There was a long pause of silence while Jamie’s face turned purple. When finally he spoke, there was a schoolyard hatred in his voice. “I’m not a boy, Laurence. And I don’t play anymore. You are not my father. You can’t tell me what to do. And when I join this war, I bet I kill a lot more Yankees than you do. Have you even killed any?”
“Jamie!” Miriam was aghast.
Laurence shoved his hands into his pockets, as if to control them. “This is not a contest, boy, between you and me. And you have no idea what killing is about. It’s not something you aspire to, James. If you were a real man, you’d know that.” Laurence rubbed his forehead and seemed to recognize the harshness of what he was saying. “But then, you’re only twelve. You don’t know any better.”
“Twelve? I’m thirteen, brother, fourteen come March. But you’ve never paid attention to things about me, have you? A real man? I’ll show you, soon enough, who’s a real man.” Jamie stormed from the room.
Miriam stood to follow.
“Leave him, Mother.” Laurence held up his hand. “He’ll sort it out.”
But Annie knew Jamie wouldn’t. He’d always been brimming with melodrama; that’d been the fun of him as a child. Introspection and careful thinking were unnatural for him. What really frightened Annie, though, was that the merriment was leaving Jamie. War rhetoric was twisted inside him, pushing him into that black-and-white kind of thinking that poisoned a person’s ability to consider other opinions.
Laurence motioned for Miriam to sit. “I haven’t given out my presents yet, Mother.” He handed Miriam two small things.
Miriam sat looking at them for a moment, trying to regain herself. She looked up at Laurence, who nodded at her. “It’s all right, Mother. I was a fool myself at that age.”
“No, darling,” Miriam answered, “you were never allowed a foolish time. You’ve had to act like a man since you were a baby, haven’t you, burying your father and brothers and convincing me to come out of my darkened room and breathe again. I’m sorry, son. I wish I had been stronger. I wish I knew how to manage Jamie. I wish…”
Laurence kissed the top of Miriam’s head. “It’s all right, Mother,” he repeated. “Open your present now.”
It was coffee, a tin of oysters, and a pound of sugar. Gratefully, Miriam held the package of ground coffee to her nose and inhaled the aroma. “We haven’t had any of this for weeks, Laurence. Thank you.”
For Annie, Laurence had a Harper’s Weekly newspaper from last Christmas. “One of our pickets exchanged tobacco for it with one of their pickets. And he gave it to me for oranges I had bought from a sutler’s wagon for you. I thought you’d prefer the magazine.”
Inside was a drawing of a family toasting one another and another drawing of people in repentant prayer. Best of all, though, was an installment of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, and the conclusion to his Christmas story A Message from the Sea.
As Annie turned the pages, Laurence kept talking. “They do that all the time, you know, the pickets, sitting across a creek or a field from one another. A few days ago, we heard two of them singing Christmas carols together in the night—a Southern boy and a Union boy, both just wanting to be home for Christmas.” He shook his head. “A voice in a bush on one side of the border and a voice in a bush on the other side, joined to sing ‘It Came upon the Midnight Clear.’ We all stopped to listen. And then it was quiet again, back to the business of waiting and watching for a time to shoot at each other.”
The fire crackled as Laurence fell si
lent. After several moments he shook himself from his thoughts.
“I stopped to see Aunt Molly on my way home, Mother, and a package for you had been delivered to her. It’s probably best that Jamie isn’t here to see it, given his hatred of all things Yankee. It’s from Massachusetts. He might figure you to be consorting with the enemy.” He handed it to her with a quizzical look.
“Massachusetts?” Miriam undid the string.
“Why, that’s even farther north than New York, isn’t it? What in the world could it be?”
The brown paper fell back to reveal a bolt of beautiful midnight blue velvet, a book, and a letter. “Oh, my,” breathed Miriam, “what gorgeous material.” She opened the letter.
“Who’s it from, Mother?” Annie asked.
Miriam turned over the paper. “Saints preserve us. It’s from the mother of that Union soldier we helped at Manassas. Do you remember, Annie, that lieutenant the Union doctor had foolishly left?”
Annie certainly did remember Thomas Walker. His dark eyes and words still plagued her.
“Read it, Mother,” Laurence suggested.
Miriam held the letter out at arm’s length and read:
“Dear Madam,
“My son Thomas has written and asked that I send a letter of thanks to you. He is currently a prisoner in Libby Prison in Richmond, but he hopes to be exchanged soon, and perhaps he will be home for Christmas. I understand that I might be able to see my dear son because of you. He says that you saved his life and treated him with much kindness in the middle of a terrible battle in which his men bombarded your farm. I wish our men had the same breadth of mercy you have, Madam, for then perhaps this war would not have happened at all. Thomas tells me you also have a son fighting. So I know you feel the same worry I do. I will pray for your son’s safety and a speedy end to this conflict.
“I read that your people have difficulty procuring fabric these days. I thought you might appreciate having this velvet for Christmas. Perhaps it can be a dress to wear when this cruel war is ended and our loved ones return home safely to us. I send it with the most profound thanks. I gave Thomas life but you kept it flowing in him. No matter what side we stand on, I consider you a sister in sorrow.
Annie, Between the States Page 7