by Tracy Groot
The three fell into step.
After a time, Emery said, “How are you in trouble, sir?”
“As to that.” Dr. Stiles took the foxtail weed out of his mouth. “The Confederate government has appropriated funds to the Andersonville Federal Hospital for its provisioning. A colleague recently brought to my attention grave discrepancies in the hospital records book. A lot of money’s gone missing from the fund, money that was earmarked for food and medicine and bandages for the sick prisoners. I didn’t believe it at first. I couldn’t believe it. I stared at those figures and thought they’d fix themselves before my eyes. They did not. I am unaccustomed to this sort of corruption.” He put the weed back in his mouth. “I am not a quarrelsome man. Generally, I can see both sides of an equation. But when the equation does not balance, in this case quite literally, one sees clearly to try and correct the sum.”
“What did you do?”
“We went to the head of the ward and, as it turns out, keeper of the hospital fund.” He smiled ruefully.
“He’s the one who—”
“I am not saying he is, and I am not saying he isn’t,” said Dr. Stiles carefully.
“Well, what happened? What did he do?”
“Said it wasn’t any of our business and put the book under lock and key. So we went to the head of the hospital, and he said he would check into it. That is Andersonville-speak for ‘a whole lot of goin’ nowhere.’ We then took the matter to Captain Wirz, who referred us to General Winder. We took the opportunity not only to point out the discrepancies in the hospital fund, but to put forth our concern over the conditions of the wards and the general state of the men, which is a direct result of starvation, exposure, and a filthy environment. Here is the perverse paradox: as a result of our inquiry, we are accused of having Northern sympathies, and our duties were suspended on the spot, pending investigation.”
A curse burst from Emery.
“Indeed,” said Dr. Stiles. “What is more . . . all of this transpired on Thursday—the day my daughter came to Andersonville.”
The doctor waited for the full import to fall upon the young men. It came to Dance first.
“And the next day . . . Americus, Americus. The handbill puts it all on the government.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Winder thinks that bill is retaliation.” Dance looked at Dr. Stiles. “From you.”
“You see it rightly.”
“But you was just tryin’ to point out stealin’!” Emery said. “What does that have to do with . . . ? It has no logic!”
“Well, Corporal Jones, this is Andersonville. Lay down your logic at the gate. It has no welcome here.”
—
Emery and Dance watched the doctor walk away.
“What are you thinking, Alabama?”
“I like that family.”
“What’s the other of your thinking?”
Emery slipped his hands into the band of his trousers. “Changin’ the Millard dance to Tuesday. That make you mad as me? I saw you bend that fork.”
“Should’ve been a neck.”
“How many friends you got in that garrison?”
“I mostly keep to myself because it is my nature, but I have a few.”
“You got any friends in high places?”
“Well, my father is friends with Governor Joe Brown, and on any given occasion he will make it known that he taught at Yale Law School the same year Brown attended. That high enough for you?”
“Won’t suit my current purposes, but I will keep it in the attic. What about that Sergeant Keppel?”
“I don’t know as we are friends, but we are not enemies. He likes Dr. Stiles.”
“Would he do for him?”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“Would he take pains to put himself out to secure a good turn for him? Am I speakin’ English?”
“You are speaking Alabamian. I think he would. What’s on your mind?”
Emery turned on him a gaze so compelling it didn’t matter what this boy was about to propose, it would get done: “Where’s that Reverend Gillette live?”
“Uh-oh. Well, I do not know. I’m sure it’s easy to find out.” Dance scratched his jaw. “I insulted him a few weeks back. It troubles me some, as I don’t remember exactly how. That was good wine. Blackberry.”
“Is he a rotten man?”
“In truth, he strikes me as a good one. A chief joy of mine is to point out hypocrisy, particularly in clergy, but I’ve not seen much in him. I’ve liked his preaching, though he is a Methodist. I am Episcopalian.” He said uneasily, “I think the insultation had to do with his Good Samaritan sermon.”
“Why, I feel heaven’s stamp already.”
And Emery unfolded a plan so outrageous that Dance laughed until the train came, and that night, laughed until sleep came. And that night, Emery Jones did not sleep.
—
At the Americus depot, while Dance laughed himself sideways on a bench, Emery asked the station agent if he knew where Reverend Gillette lived, as he had a matter of conscience to discuss. The agent, who fought in the Mexican War, knew soldiers had much to confess, gambling and drinking and all manner of promiscuity at the head of the list. He patted the penitent on the back and said he was a good fellow, then gave directions to the Gillette home, a tidy little clapboard affair right next to the Methodist church.
—
At dawn, when Reverend William Gillette emerged from the privy at the back of the house, a sack came down on his head. He was carried through the corn, dropped once from his struggles, and bundled into the back of a wagon.
Persecution for preaching the gospel had surely come upon him, and he prepared to die for Jesus.
9
VIOLET AND MOTHER PREPARED the parlor for the Knitting Brigade. The Americus Ladies’ Knitting Brigade met every Monday afternoon. In the first year of the war they had thirty-some members, and the parlor was packed. The ladies of Americus were like those in any other Southern city. Indefatigable energy filled parlors with socks and blankets, patch kits and soap, jars of jelly, jam, and butters, and all manner of packaging materials to send forth these tokens of home, sure to sustain the homesick and strengthen the weary.
The war ground on, and most parlors became less concerned with necessities for the troops and more concerned with necessities for their own households. Knitting Brigade attendance began to flag. Now, ten women was a good turnout.
Violet picked a protruding feather from a davenport bolster. “How many do you think will come today?”
“Do not take that tone, my dear. It is depressive. I like what Mr. Jones said, for it heartened me: the good Lord will send those as have ears to hear.”
“That is regarding the Friends of Andersonville Prison meeting tomorrow night.”
“Apply it to today’s Brigade as well. It is a precursor.”
“I can’t argue with that. My stomach is in fits.” She examined the feather she’d plucked. “I hope they leave the tar at home.”
Mother stopped in the center of the parlor and put her hands on her hips. She looked down at Rosie, Daisy, and Posey. Posey was marking black dots on wooden cubes. “Posey pie, what are you doing?”
“Making dice to sell to the troops.”
“Making what?”
Rosie looked up. “There is profit to be had, Mother.”
Daisy shrugged. “They’re going to gamble anyway. Might as well have fine dice.”
“While we make a profit.”
Posey held up two of the dice. “See? They’re a little big, but they should suit right fine.”
“They should suit very well and you three stop it this instant! I declare! Gambling!” She called to the kitchen, “Ellen, is that basket for Widow Hatcher ready? I have three young miscreants in need of decent occupation.” To the miscreants, she said, “You clear this up and throw those in the wood box. Ellen needs more kindling.”
“Mother, this is our stock!” Daisy protest
ed.
“All our profits . . .” Rosie groaned.
“It must be borne,” Posey said stoically. She began to gather the blocks into her apron.
“Posey, mind that ink . . . ,” said Mother.
“Widow Hatcher doesn’t need a basket,” Daisy said. “She is plenty fat.”
“She is ornery, to boot.”
“Last time we were there, she hardly took the basket for pride.”
Mother looked at Daisy. “I told you to leave it on her porch.”
“We wanted to see her thanks,” Posey said from the kitchen, where she was emptying her apron into Ellen’s wood box.
“She wasn’t thankful,” Rosie said.
Mother’s eyes went wide. She said dangerously slow, “Leave it on her porch this time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” all three chimed, subdued.
Lily was sorting through the latest collection in the Pressing Needs box. “Look. Someone gave a very nice pencil.” She held it up.
Posey came back from the kitchen, the basket for Widow Hatcher on her hip. She paused next to Lily. “Well, that is tempting.”
“Is it your pressing need?” Lily asked, an eyebrow raised.
“No. But I cannot deny it is tempting.” She put down the basket, and peeked under the dish towel. “Well, this is tempting, too. I wondered why it was so heavy.”
The twins came close. “What’s in there?”
“A whole roast chicken. A jar of Papa’s guava jelly.”
“Some of the madeleines for the Brigade,” Rosie accused. “Will there be enough for us?”
“Listen to me.” Mother’s hands went to her hips, a common pose when addressing the three. “This war has touched us all. We have no men to send, but others have sent theirs. We must stand by them. How do you think she makes money when her husband is dead and her only son gone to war?”
“She makes those ugly chair cushions,” Daisy said.
“They don’t sell much,” Rosie, the ringleader, said thoughtfully. “She has not much skill. People buy them from pity. Mama bought eight and we do not use them.” She looked at the other two. “Let us try and be kind.” Rosie picked up the basket, and the other two followed her out the front door.
“Has she any word yet?” Lily asked.
“I haven’t heard,” Mother said softly.
Widow Hatcher’s son had been gravely wounded in battle at a place called Peachtree Creek. It was not far away, north only by a few hundred miles.
“It is time to follow the news again,” Violet said. “The war comes to us.”
When Ben had gone off, she led the family in keeping track of troop movements by scouring four newspapers. She loitered near the telegraph office, inspected the bulletin board in front of the depot to read daily postings that newspapers couldn’t keep up with—and to read the lists of the glorious dead. After Ben’s name appeared on that list, Violet’s patriotic fervor dried up and she never went back to the boards.
She came alongside her mother, who had devoted herself to helping the Confederate soldier, and instead of troop movements Violet’s world became Americus once more. The unpeopling of Americus had become a grief the entire community bore together. No one wanted to read the news anymore; they did, but not for the Cause. They did it for the boys of Americus still fighting, boys they all knew. Boys she’d gone to grammar school with, or Sunday school. Boys she’d danced with at parties; boys who had once plowed the home fields, now buried in distant ones. Husbands, sons, fathers—lost. Widows’ weeds replaced party dresses. Black crepe was everywhere, and now Yankees were on Georgia soil. Would they breach Atlanta? How long before they did?
“Will there be enough madeleines?” Lily asked.
Violet shook from her thoughts. “I cannot imagine more than half a dozen showing up.”
“Hettie will be here,” Mother said firmly. Hettie Dixon, a widow so long that most took her for an old maid, was Mother’s fiercest friend. “And Constance Greer. The two Louises and the two Marys.”
“The one Mary, I should think,” said Violet. After all, Mary Robinson, Ben’s mother, had told her daughter the Stileses were traitors.
“Perhaps so. But stay on what Emery said, Violet dear.” Mother paused in her tidying up to give Violet’s face a quick caress. Just as quickly, her attention was diverted. “Lily, why is that candle and picture still there? It looks like a shrine. Are we Catholics?”
“I find it a fitting way of remembrance,” Lily said of the rippled candle stub in a pewter holder. Next to it was a picture of Jeb Stuart, the dashing cavalry officer killed in May. Lily had clipped the picture, weeping, from an illustrated newspaper.
“The poor boy,” Mother murmured, laying a hand on her cheek. “And so handsome.” Then she said briskly, “Take it to your bedroom. We must mind our p’s and q’s today. We can’t have them thinking we’ve gone Yankee and Catholic all at the same time.”
“Dey all think de ’Pocalypse be on ’em.” Ellen offered half a madeleine to Mother.
Mother chewed and concentrated. She nodded. “They’re perfect.”
“You notice anythin’ diff’rent?” Ellen said slyly.
Mother shook her head, and Ellen broke into a wide smile. “Dis time I makes ’em wid no yeast powda. Ain’t got no mo’, so I jes beat up dem eggs extry high with dat Dover, and Lawd have mercy if dese ain’t betta.”
“They are supreme,” Mother pronounced. “You should make them like this always.”
The door banged open and Posey charged in, straight for Mother. She threw her arms around Mother’s middle and buried her face.
“Mercy!” Mother gasped. “What’s happened?”
Rosie and Daisy came in. Daisy, her face stricken, started for Ellen until she realized Rosie had not, and remained in place. She looked down.
Rosie said slowly, “Widow Hatcher was kind, Mama. It was unsettling.”
“She was crying,” Posey said, muffled.
“Oh no! Is it Frank?” Mother said.
“No.” Rosie put her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall. “She was hungry is all.”
“She shall have my dessert,” Posey wept into Mother’s apron. “Even if it is custard pie.”
“Mine as well,” Daisy said.
“She was eating the madeleines and crying at the same time. It is not Christian of me, but I am angry at those Yankees,” Rosie said. Tears rose in her eyes. She glanced at Violet. “Maybe even starving Yanks. She was that hungry.” Rosie wiped her nose. “Mama, she asked us to go down to the bulletin boards with her. She is afraid to go alone. May we?”
Mother nodded.
“Come on, Daise.” Rosie held out her hand. Daisy took it and the two left.
Posey was shaking her head in Mother’s apron. “I don’t have the heart.”
Mother held her close. “It’s all right, child. Besides, I need your help. Tessie Robinson will likely come, will she not?”
Posey sniffed. “To eat madeleines is all.”
“The two of you can serve today.”
Posey looked up. She brushed tear-damp hair from her face. “Can we use the silver tray?”
“If you make sure it is suitable. No tarnish.”
Posey dashed off.
“Ellen, move Widow Hatcher from the monthly list to the weekly.”
“I’se already done it in m’head.” She headed for the kitchen. “Don’t you take down dat tray, Posey. You gonna topple dat tower. Wait fo’ me.”
“Mother? Violet?” Lily said at the porch door.
Mother and Violet hurried over.
“Goodness gracious.” Mother’s hand went to her throat. “Look at them.”
“Hettie, Constance—both Marys! Louise, Grandma Percy—is that Sallie?”
“Sallie,” Violet said, lip curled.
“Ann Hodgson! Oh, it’s good to see her! Look, she brought baby James—the girls will be thrilled. There’s Big Sue—”
“Don’t call her that,” said Mother automatica
lly.
“Mae Belle Dreyer, the other Louise—Mother, is this a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I hardly know. They look a mob. One thing is sure—we do not have enough madeleines. Stall them, girls! Show them the new trellis. I will help Ellen make more. We must not look as if we expected few!” They rarely saw Mother run, but she grabbed her skirts and ran.
“What can it mean?” Violet wondered. “They do look like a mob.”
Lily must have wondered, too. She grabbed Violet’s hand and squeezed.
—
Colonel Hettie Dixon called the Americus Ladies’ Knitting Brigade to order, General Polly Stiles presiding and momentarily occupied. Old Business: Sell 100 pairs of Socks at the Millard Dance for the Americus War Widows and Orphans Fund. New Business: the Millard Dance, now Fraught with Ominous Portents. And Hebrews 13:3.
Twenty-one, not including children, Violet counted. They had to pull in chairs from the dining room and porch. The children sat in the middle, on the carpet. What did this turnout mean? It looked like the first several months of the war when they packed the place out every week. And sure enough . . . an unnatural silence reigned. Some had socks in their laps, but any attempt at knitting seemed pretense. This was not about socks for the Millard dance.
Hettie picked up the Pressing Needs box and shook it. “Dig deep, ladies,” she said cheerily. She slowly drew an edged handkerchief from her pocket and placed it in the box. She had got hold of Matthew 5:16 months ago, and memorized it upon the group: Let your good works shine and spur others to the same. Slow made them shine and spur.
She started to pass the box, then noticed the pencil. “Now look at this.” She took it out and held it aloft, as if brandishing the standard of a regiment. “Is this not Christian kindness?” She put it in the box and passed it to Grandma Percy. Grandma Percy rummaged through it, examining items with interest—especially a folded square of calico, which she was reluctant to replace—and passed it on without contribution.
Americus tried to behave as though not much had changed, in keeping with fashionable, dismissive defiance of the North, but calico at twenty-five dollars a yard when it went for eighty cents in ’61 was not easily ignored. Pencils could not be had at any price. Shortages of paper, pencils, and ink made Letters for Our Soldiers more difficult to produce, and envelopes had to be fashioned from old forms and receipts donated from local businesses.