by Tracy Groot
“Where did you say General Winder’s office is?” Lily asked.
Violet shook the handbills. “Are these so inflammatory? What is treasonous about feeding starving people? I declare!”
“Right on his front door,” Lily said grimly. “That’s where it will go. Just like Martin Luther did. Then one for Captain Wirz’s front door, one for the dry goods store, one for the stable, one for the mill . . . I do wish we had made more. Oh, Violet, my blood is taken up! I have never felt this way. I hope it lasts forever.”
—
“Pickett! Pickett, you gotta see this.”
Drover ran up the rungs, a paper held high.
“This was tacked up at the depot.” Drover gave him the paper, then leaned on his knees to catch his breath. “I’ve never seen so bold!”
Dance spread the paper on the rail.
AMERICUS, AMERICUS
Is it Possible that You are not Aware of the Appalling Conditions of Starvation and Neglect of the Human Beings incarcerated in the Andersonville Prison? Is it Possible that a mere Ten Miles separates Heaven from Hell?
Come to be Informed at an Indignation Meeting this Tuesday Night on the Pleasantly Situated Lawn at the home of Doctor Norton Stiles and Family, at the east terminus of Lamar Street, inaugurating a New Society called . . .
The Friends of Andersonville Prison.
Let the People of Americus rise up in Indignation at the Hellacious Unjust Treatment our Enemy receives at the hand of our Very Own Government! In the spirit of Southern Loyalty to Humanity, let us Secede from the Awful Indifference of a Government that should Doom men to such Misery. This isn’t Us, and it never Was.
Refreshments will be served. We respectfully ask each family or individual to bring his own spreading blanket.
“You ever seen so bold?”
Dance laid his hand on the paper.
“Dr. Stiles is my man ’til I die,” said Drover.
“May I keep this?”
“You bet—I just as soon get it off my person. Don’t let Wirz find it on you. He and Winder are in a state.”
“I’ll bet they are.”
“You goin’ to that meetin’? Don’t know if I dare.”
“Well, I had better.” Dance felt lightness in his head. “I happen to be the president of the F.A.P.”
Drover breathed a respectful curse. “You know what, Pickett? I figured you had something like this in you.” He looked out over the stockade, scanning the acres of men. “I haven’t felt this hopeful for them in . . . never.” He went to the ladder. “I gotta go tell James. Do you know he wrote a letter to Jefferson Davis about this place?” He disappeared down the ladder.
Burr squinted at the handbill. “What’s that say?”
Dance read it to him.
Burr whistled. “Good night Irene. The doc’s gone and laid down a line o’ thunder.”
Dance went to the corner and picked up his leather scrip. He never thought the day would come that he would open his sanctuary here in this profane place.
He unwound the string.
He read the bill one more time, then slipped it into the scrip, closed the flap, and rewound the string.
“Pickett, what you got in there, anyway?”
Dance came and rested his elbows on the rail. He felt lighter than air. Americus, Americus. She said it as if she were the one standing right here. And she said it for the world to see.
“I have a sanctuary in there, Burr. One day I will open it up upon this place.”
“What will happen then?”
“Why, I will send the words out over the men, and they will reach up and take hold. They will be lifted away, and thus borne home.”
“One word per man?”
“One word.”
“Why them is powerful words, then,” Burr said kindly.
“Yes, sir.”
“You best take care of them words, for that would be a sight.” Then Burr said, “Take care of yourself, too, Pickett, and some for Dr. Stiles. That handbill is throwed down and there is no fetchin’ it back. Wish I’d throwed it, ’cept I got a family.”
“So does he.”
—
Papa sat at the table with his head in his hands. The original handbill lay on the table before him.
“Papa, please say something.”
The buffet clock ticked.
“You were gone, and—”
“I wish you had consulted me before you put this up. With all my heart I do.”
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
“You meant well,” he said, lifting his head. He patted her arm.
“Norton, I do not understand,” said Mother. She picked up the bill. “What is so bad about this?” Her eyes narrowed, and went to Papa. “You have never been shy about saying it like it is. This is as it is. Am I correct?”
“You are. But things are . . . different. They are as they never were.”
“How so? Tell me this instant, how so?”
“Wise as serpents is our prescribed tack, and I missed it. I wish I had more serpent in me.”
“There was a man at the warehouse in Andersonville, Papa,” said Lily. “His name is Howard. He said this all looked like treason. What could he mean by that?”
“Treason?” Mother laughed. “Your father?”
But Papa did not laugh.
“Norton Avery Stiles. You tell me this instant what you have done.”
“Multiple things. Multiple small things.”
“What things?”
“I have written letters. To the war department, to Howell Cobb. Joe Brown, Jefferson Davis. Abraham Lincoln.”
“Lincoln!”
“I have—”
“Norton Stiles.” Mother’s hand flew to her throat. “You are not a spy. Are you a spy?”
“Polly, please.”
“Say from your mouth you are not a spy.”
“I am not a spy, my dear.”
“Goodness gracious!” Mother laughed nervously. “Of course you are not!”
“But I am a traitor.” He folded his hands. “I take food to the sick patients at the Federal hospital when it is forbidden to do so. I smuggle small things. A sweet potato in each trouser pocket. A packet of gingersnaps in my vest. I drop them on the ground where they can find them. I let them fall through my trousers.”
The picture of a sweet potato falling through Papa’s trousers finally undid Mother, and she laid a hand on her cheek.
“How vulgar! They eat them from the ground?”
Surprisingly, Papa chuckled. He took Mother’s hand and kissed it, smiling at his wife with affection. Then he picked up the bill and read the first line. “Americus, Americus . . . ,” he murmured.
“I was thinking of ‘O Jerusalem, Jerusalem,’” Violet said, who now wished with all her miserable heart she’d never taken up a pen. “‘Thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!’”
Then it seemed as though only Violet and Papa were in the room. He turned upon her such a direct gaze it made her swimmy.
Papa was a mild man, courteous and kind, possessed of even thinking, slow to make decisions but steadfast in sticking to them, a lighthouse on a rock, a calm beacon in storms. But for a flash, a storm broke wild and bright on his face.
He rose from the table, and with his voice curiously thick, said down to her, “I am fearfully proud of you.”
He took the paper and left the dining room.
8
VIOLET COULD NOT CLOSE her eyes, for when she did she saw a dropped hand. She saw a light go out at the bottom of a well. She did not go to him, did not go, and felt upon her heart hot lines as if laid by a poker.
She stayed home from church this morning because Mother said she looked poorly. Violet did not mind as she couldn’t bear the thought of being cordial, and had no worship in her.
Church service would so
on be over. Reverend Gillette would shake hands with his flock and bless them to their week. Did she not go to church because she did not want to face what her family must have?
Violet walked around the table, laying the spoons. Dance and Emery would be here soon. Today was the planning day for the Friends of Andersonville Prison. But Violet knew none of the anticipation that should have attended this day. She was about to embark upon the greatest venture that ever met her heart, and she felt lame out of the gate.
Ellen made Papa’s favorite dishes to let it be known she was upset with Violet for upsetting Papa. She went early to the colored chapel, a building built behind the Methodist church, and before chapel, made two kinds of bread to go with three jellies—quince, guava, and pawpaw; from the stove now came a leg of mutton with mint sauce, buttered purple hull peas, creamed corn, and field mushrooms stewed in butter with pepper and pounded mace.
She shook up the fire to brown the meringue, and took down the jar with Papa’s tea. The blockade made the cost of Papa’s favorite tea prohibitive—five dollars a pound before the war, now forty dollars—but Ellen had fashioned her own brew from wild herbs and leaves from fruit-bearing plants, and he declared that it tasted better than Phoenix Tea.
The mace for the mushrooms likely came from the Trades Pile, as they called it, the corner of Dr. Stiles’s office which held all the things people traded for Papa’s services. It was a measure of the times that they finally resorted to the pile, for most of what people traded wasn’t worth much. Now, with the practice of wartime economies, the Trades Pile was consulted with sobering frequency. Mother once remonstrated with Lily for melting the soles of her slippers on the fender. Rosie went off unnoticed to the pile, and to the astonishment of all, produced a pair of worn but serviceable pink silk slippers.
Rosie and Daisy were custodians of the pile, and at any given moment could tell you if soap or sugar or potatoes or mildly weevily flour were available. Lately dry goods were scarce, and the pile consisted mostly of the same old molasses, cornmeal, and dried peas.
Most of the week the family dined from things from the Trades Pile, but Sunday was different. On Sundays, the family dined as if there were no war.
Violet laid the knives. Ellen was cordial if cool, and arranged the jellies near Papa’s place setting with a little more fuss than necessary. When Violet did not ask about her silence, she said, “Been some time since I seen da docta go down so low in da mouf. Been since little George.”
Violet did not answer. She laid the forks.
“I wunda how it went in da white church. I knows how it went in mine.”
“And how did it go?” Violet asked wearily.
“We spent da whole time prayin’ for da docta.”
“I don’t know if that cheers me up.”
“It wudden meant to.”
Violet tossed down a fork. It plinked on the plate.
“You mind dat china. Dat be Miss Polly’s weddin’ gif’ from Judge—”
“Templeton.”
“You mind dat tone.”
“Ellen, if it means anything at all, I’d give the last button in Americus to have that handbill back.”
Ellen paused beside Violet on her way to the kitchen. “Dat is good enough for me, chile,” she said, considerably mollified. “Sin ’fessed is sin fo’given.” She was humming by the time she opened the oven to remove the pie.
Violet went to the kitchen. “Exactly what is sinful about what I wrote?”
“Nuthin’. Elda Clem read dose words in da chapel and we praise de Lawd. He ain’t read nuthin’ like dat since Mista Lincoln’s ’Mancipation paper. Dem po’ Yankees be treated somethin’ shameful. Elda Clem say it a calumny ’pon dis town.”
“Then why do you make me feel lower than a footprint?”
“’Cause you ain’t got no sense, chile.”
Violet went back to the dining room.
All plans for the redemption of the prison had abandoned her, and right now she didn’t care about discussing things with Emery Jones, that spirited boy with ambition to surpass her own— If bustin’ one Yank out of that prison should hang me . . . what’ll they do if I bust ’em all?
She thought of only two things: How had people treated her family over that hateful handbill, and how angry did the bill make Dance?
—
Dance loved it here, everything about it, the home and those who peopled it. He loved the collection of daguerreotypes in the parlor. He loved the corner of the parlor sacred to the manifold projects of the Stiles women—baskets of yarn for the Knitting Brigade that met every Monday, piles of paper from the collection box at church for the Letters to Our Soldiers campaign, and a place dedicated to the collection of packaging materials to send foodstuffs and sundries from home. Packaging materials were easier to collect these days than foodstuffs and sundries.
He loved this dining room, the neat line of covered dishes on the sideboard, and the colorful rag rugs he could see from here on the kitchen floor. He liked the stain on the wallpaper near the ceiling, which he had not noticed until Mrs. Stiles pointed it out and said with dignity that it represented a Post-War project. Such triflings as stained wallpaper and worn clothing would not trouble them for the time being, as they had pressing needs to take their concern. Stained wallpaper was certainly not a pressing need. It was a verse in Titus.
He liked it best when no other visitors came on Sunday, when it was just the Stiles family and he, and that was rare. But today he didn’t mind that Emery came, for he seemed to belong as much as Dance. Emery suited comfortably.
Dance sat in his usual place, on Violet’s right. Posey sat on her left, with Emery between Posey and Lily. They sat to the table a little later than usual, as Ellen declared upon first sight of Emery that he would not sit to the table as is. “When was da las’ time dat shirt was boiled?”
Emery looked down. “Well, ma’am, it has been too long. I forget about my appearance in civil society. Been on campaign for some time.”
“We haven’t had any real soldiers yet,” Rosie said, and Dance had to make a sour smile behave. “I look forward to dinner conversation. I wish to hear of battles.”
“Take dat off. I’ll git you an old shirt of da docta. Gimme dem trousers, too, and your draws.”
“Ellen, I do not think it polite to say drawers in front of company,” Mrs. Stiles said. “What is more, it is the Sabbath.”
“Da Lawd say it fine to do a good turn on da Sabbath, and as I ain’t nevah done anyone’s draws ’cept family, I is about to win m’self a place to de Lawd’s right hand. Come wif me, young mista.”
Emery obeyed. He presently returned with a scrubbed face and damp hair, rigged out in old clothes a size too large. The pants were cuffed, the sleeves turned back, and suspenders held everything together. The children laughed at the sight, and Emery turned in place to display himself. “Why, I have a sudden compellin’ to practice med’cine. Anyone feelin’ poorly?”
All laughed except for Violet. It looked to Dance as though she hadn’t slept in days. She had barely spoken a word since they arrived, and she seemed to be avoiding Dance altogether.
Dr. Stiles said grace. Dishes were passed, plates were filled, and first bites had been taken when Posey opened discussion with “Papa? Can I be a traitor and a Christian at the same time?”
The table stilled.
“Mrs. Robinson says we are traitors, and I said what does this mean, and Tessie thought it meant we were headin’ to hell. I said I am so going to heaven and they’ll let me in quicker than you.”
Dr. Stiles finished chewing, wiped his mouth with his napkin, took a sip of water, and confirmed with soothing finality, “You are going to heaven.”
“I don’t like saying hell. It feels like I have cussed. Even though I haven’t.” A quick glance at Mrs. Stiles. “And I will tell Tessie I don’t think they’ll let me in quicker. I will clear the air.”
Violet put down her fork, which, Dance noticed, hadn’t done more than p
rod a mushroom. “Well, on that encouraging note . . . how did it go?”
Dance noticed that Emery listened as intently as he; ordinarily, Dr. and Mrs. Stiles liked it when the guards went to church with them, but Emery had overslept. The trains ran only three times on the Sabbath from Albany to Macon, and he managed to find Emery only minutes before the eleven-fifteen.
“We’re not supposed to tell you,” said Rosie.
“Out of kindness,” Daisy added kindly.
“I am a Traitor Christian,” Posey said with satisfaction, spooning large amounts of jam on a slice of bread. “You can call me T. C.”
“Enough jam,” Mrs. Stiles said sharply. “Violet, dear . . .”
“Where are the Runcorns?” Two place settings lacked diners.
Mrs. Stiles lowered her eyes. “Ravinia had a headache.”
“Did everyone have a headache?” Violet asked.
When Dr. and Mrs. Stiles said nothing, Lily said quietly, “There are more against us than for us, Violet.”
“But some are for us,” said Daisy.
Violet placed her hands in her lap. “Do you think anyone will come?”
“This is the bad part,” Posey said, laying down her bread.
“Brace yourself,” Rosie advised.
Dr. Stiles raised his eyes to Violet’s. “The Millards moved the dance to Tuesday night. Reverend Gillette announced it from the pulpit.”
“Oh,” Violet said in a very small voice.
County dances in southwest Georgia were as famously attended as those in Augusta and Savannah—and an established date was never moved. This Millard social had been planned for over a month. Dance had long seen the announcement on the board at the depot. He gripped his cutlery.
“Did you see their faces?” Lily demanded. “They all looked as if they had pulled off something fine.”
“Not our Hettie Dixon,” Rosie said. “She said out loud the Millards ought to be ashamed.”
“She didn’t say the Millards. She said someone ought to be ashamed,” Lily said. “I think she meant Reverend Gillette.”
“I think she meant everyone,” said Mrs. Stiles. “Reverend Gillette did not seem very happy.”