“The great fool called for a little bloodletting,” he grumbled, “without having any idea what war is about. Well, he’s getting it now, by golly. He’s getting it now!”
Hannah didn’t like this vein of conversation any better than the last one. She was tired of doomsayers and their negativity, and she was just about out of patience with arrogant artists as well. After pressing her lips together for many long minutes, she finally burst out, “Mr. Covington, you’ve made your views quite plain, but you’re no more a soldier than I am. What makes you such an expert on this matter?”
His head popped up from behind the painting, and he regarded her shrewdly. Finally, he spoke. “Miss Wallace, if I paint your face as I see it before me now, not a man in a million will purchase it.”
With an effort, Hannah wiped the impatience from her features. For two hours she stood stiffly and quietly, and Mr. Covington seemed content to paint in silence. At last the artist laid three coins in her hand, but as she turned to go, he stopped her. “Miss Wallace, there’s no reason under heaven that you should own two Sunday dresses. And even less to wear one here. I’m painting you as a farm girl. Dress like one.”
Her resentment rose to her cheeks again, and she whisked away without even a glance at the canvas.
Chapter 8
The next week, Joel hitched Rounder to the cart, and he and Mama drove out of the yard before the sun rose. Hannah watched them go, wishing she could have gone too. She’d only been to Allegan once, a long time ago. She remembered streets lined on both sides with buildings and sleek steamships cruising the wide, strong currents of the Kalamazoo. She desperately wished to see it all again, but too much work waited at home.
She and Justin spent the day threshing. First they beat the dried wheat with long flails to separate the grain from the stalk. Then the grain had to be winnowed. Each child took hold of opposite ends of an old bedsheet and tossed the heavy kernels between them, allowing the lighter chaff to blow away in the breeze. It was long, exhausting work, but they could no longer afford to hire Yancey’s machine.
The cart returned hours after supper, and Hannah could see the discouragement in Mama’s eyes. She knew Joel’s words before he spoke.
“The bank refused us. The fellow said an extension would be poor business practice, that no woman alone could ever hope to repay it.”
Justin bristled. “Didn’t you tell him she wouldn’t be alone? She has two men working the farm.”
“Course I told him, but he didn’t see it our way. Without Pa and Seth here, he wasn’t willing to take the gamble.”
“It’s no gamble at all,” Hannah insisted. “They’ve already loaned the money. All we need is a little more time to pay it back.”
“I said that, too, but it wasn’t any good. We have thirty days.”
Mama’s face looked tight, like a woolen dress washed in too-hot water. “It’s just a setback. We still have several loads of potatoes and the pumpkin crop to sell. And we can part with the sheep and the calf. Joel will round them up tomorrow.”
“We could sell off the north pasture to Mr. Patton,” Joel hesitated. “Won’t be long and the law will make him pen that herd, even in summer.”
Mama pursed her lips with the same determination that carried her to the wilderness so many years ago. “Let’s try everything else first. In the meantime, there is much to be done.”
That was the honest truth. Along with everyday chores, there were apples to dry, more potatoes to fork, the garden to harvest and store, a field of pumpkins to be picked and cured, more hay to stack, the livestock to round up, walnuts to gather, and fall had only begun.
But Mama didn’t allow any work on the Sabbath. And every third Sunday, when Reverend Whelan rotated into Wayland from his other congregations, the family dutifully squeezed into the red schoolhouse for the Methodist service.
This week excitement ran especially high, because after the service there was to be a community social with the Congregational church including a potluck, a ballgame, and visiting that would go on till evening services. Several ladies had also organized a bandage drive to benefit the army. Mama hustled everyone out of the house, instructing Joel to carry the heavy hamper and Hannah to fetch along the sewing scissors and a pair of old linens.
The air felt cool and clear as they walked to town. All around them the land was shedding its summer garments for the glowing tones of autumn. Crisp mornings had stained the trees red and yellow at their fingertips, and a few early leaves cascaded to earth when the wind touched them. The same breeze rattled the brown cornstalks and turned fields long saturated with hot, yellow rays into waves of molten gold.
Reverend Whelan performed at his fiery best. After his final amen, the congregation flowed from the schoolhouse like cattle released from a winter paddock. Maddy squealed and rushed to share her good news with a knot of girlfriends. Justin found Peter Patton, and the two were soon up the nearest tree shooting acorns down at their friends with Peter’s slingshot. Even Joel ambled off to join a school chum, drawing veiled glances from Sue Ellen.
Hannah greeted Sue Ellen politely and hustled to join Wes at the front of the food line.
Wes grinned. “I wish I could carry five plates. Look at all this food!”
Long plank tables sagged beneath the weight of dozens of dishes. Ham, venison, roasted pigeon, fried chicken, mounds of mashed potatoes, bowls of corn dripping with butter, tomato slices, baskets towering with fluffy biscuits, apple pie, pumpkin pie, and blackberry pie. Hannah’s mouth watered as if she were an old hound snuffling outside a rabbit hole.
“Any news from your Pa?” Wes asked.
“We got a letter last week. He’s in Washington DC. Seth said they’re training in arms.”
Seth always wrote about what the regiment was doing, but Pa filled his letters with descriptions of the places he’d seen. He told of the blue, smoky haze of the mountains that rolled one on top of another until she felt she could feel the damp droplets on her cheek. He described streams that fluttered like white ribbons down cliffs of sheer black rock. She could picture the great Horseshoe Bend, where the track wound in such a circle that the head of the train nearly bit its own tail as it wound through the hills. And she could feel the weight and strength of the wide Susquehanna River pushing itself to the sea. She knew Pa painted the pictures just for her, and they felt too private to share even with Wes.
She was saved by Reverend Whelan, who called for silence and blessed the meal.
The rumble of voices resumed all around her. As she filled her plate, Hannah could hear Mr. Carver conversing with Mr. Lawson.
“Of course you’re in no hurry to have the railroad come through,” Mr. Lawson said. “The hotel sits right on the toll road, and it’s raking in business from the stage. But a railroad will benefit the rest of us. When it comes, it will turn Wayland into a real town, not some little frontier way station.”
“Apparently it’s the railroad that’s in no hurry,” Mr. Carver answered. “Rumors have circulated for fifteen years about a line linking Kalamazoo and Grand Rapids.”
“True, but the Grand Rapids and Indiana railroad company has formed with that very objective in mind.”
“They formed eight years ago,” Carver scoffed. “By the time they actually lay down track, I’ll be too deaf to hear the train.”
Lawson chuckled, but he wouldn’t be deterred. “It’s only a matter of time, Isaiah. And when it comes, the railroad will run right through Wayland, and every square foot of real estate in this town will triple in value.”
“Amazing machine, the railroad.” Doctor Graves spoke up from the food line across the table. “Never thought I’d live to see such wonders. Now I can’t imagine running this war without it.”
“Blast this war!” Mr. Carver frowned. Every conversation, it seemed, turned to it eventually.
The doctor replied, “Don’t be too quick to judge, Isaiah. It’s keeping our nation together.”
“It’s ripping it apart,
and I’ve had a year and a half to form my judgment,” Mr. Carver contradicted. “It has inflated prices, driven up taxes, siphoned off our work force, and provided a thousand opportunities for unscrupulous characters.”
Doctor Graves frowned thoughtfully. “Every war requires sacrifice. The Union is the greatest nation ever created. Our grandfathers knew the value of liberty. They knew life without it. They fought to create a nation where religion, wealth, and race don’t matter. They sacrificed for its creation. We must not let it disintegrate.”
“The Union isn’t worth the price we’re paying for it.” Mr. Covington joined the conversation. Hannah had sat for him two more times, and each had felt as stilted and awkward as the first. She hustled to stay well ahead of him in line.
“So what if it breaks up?” the artist continued. “The Confederates are our kin. They share our religion and our style of government, our stories, our history. If we had let them go, eventually they would have come back. Or at least become our closest ally. I agree with Carver. This disagreement is sucking the blood out of both sides.”
Hannah and Wes carried their meals under a scarlet maple tree. They were too busy eating to talk, but not to listen. The cluster of men stood nearby, their conversation drawing more and more participants.
Mr. Stockdale joined in. “I think we can all agree it was the South that started this here conflict. With their high-falutin’ ways and their squabble over slavery, what choice did they give us?”
“Neither side was without guilt, William,” Doctor Graves admonished. “North and South have both been pressing the slavery issue for decades.”
“And we certainly couldn’t ignore it any longer,” Reverend Whelan emphasized. “A society that allows one man’s possession of another must be reprimanded.”
“Hold on there, preacher,” Mr. Stockdale objected. “My son ain’t fighting for no darkies.”
Mr. Carver waved a fork at the crowd. “Even slavery would have died of its own accord. It’s become unaffordable. More and more Southern lawmakers have been pushing to ban it. The issue would have resolved itself soon enough.”
“There are three million men with black skin who wouldn’t agree with you,” the reverend interjected quietly.
Just then, Johnny Wilson trotted through the park with an armload of sawmill slabs, and boys scurried from all directions like ants drawn to spilled food. Someone produced a cowhide ball, and several leather catching pads appeared out of nowhere.
“Going to play?” Hannah asked Wes.
“Course I am!” He bolted the rest of his food and handed her his empty plate.
As he jogged away, she clutched the plate with thinly veiled disgust. She was nobody’s servant, and certainly not his wife! Maddy might have chosen such a life of service, but not Hannah.
She left his plate beside the tree.
After stowing her own plate safely in her mother’s hamper, Hannah marched to the ball diamond where the boys hustled to squeeze in a game before the men finished their conversation and took over the field. She’d teach Wes a lesson and prove to every boy on that ball field that she was nobody’s housemaid, least of all Wes Carver’s.
She waited patiently until Wes stood up to bat. She watched him miss the first ball, nick the next one a glancing blow, and finally strike out on a third pitch. While the fellows were still ribbing him over his poor performance, Hannah timed her entrance and took the bat slab out of his hands.
“My turn,” she announced.
The boys stopped laughing and stared at her with a mixture of surprise and hesitation. Wes’s mouth popped open nearly wide enough to catch a frog. “Are you serious?”
“Why not?” she asked. “It doesn’t look that difficult.”
He crossed his arms and smirked. “This I’ve got to see.”
She ignored him. “Sammy Davis,” she yelled, threatening the pitcher with the wooden slab, “if you don’t pitch that ball to me, I’m going to lock you in the outhouse tomorrow at recess!”
With obvious reluctance, he wound up for the pitch.
Hannah braced herself. “Give me your dirty plate, will you?” she muttered to Wes.
The ball zoomed past and the bat whistled. A clean miss.
“Strike one!” A few snickers sounded out in the field.
“Throw another!” she yelled.
Again, the ball flew past and she connected with thin air.
“One more and you’re out,” Sammy told her.
She nodded and took a firmer grip on the bat. Sammy wound up, and the pitch rocketed toward her. Time seemed to slow. She focused, watching the ball inch closer and closer. Her muscles tensed. She swung hard.
Swish!
The ball dropped to the ground behind her. She missed again.
Every movement on the field stilled. The boys watched her uncertainly, not knowing how she’d respond, but Wes had no such hesitation. He was doubled over, hooting so loudly he could barely catch his breath.
His backside was nearest to her. With a smart little smile, she stepped forward, took careful aim, and swung with all her might. The board connected with a loud slap that sent Wes sprawling across home plate.
“Grand slam!” Sammy cried as laughter exploded across the field. Hannah calmly handed the board to the next boy in line.
A group of ladies, including Hannah’s mother, had settled themselves near the ball field where they could watch the game as they tore old linens into strips. They had all seen Hannah’s performance. Most turned politely to their work as she approached, but Mrs. Clark looked downright scandalized. Old grouch.
Mrs. Carver chuckled with amusement, her apple cheeks round and red, and slid over to make room for her. “Hannah Wallace, I declare, what is your mother going to do with you?”
Hannah beamed at the woman then at her mother, whose lips pressed together in a firm line. She knew she’d get a talking to on the way home, but it had been worth it.
She picked up one of the bandages and wrapped it around and around her fingers, forming it into a compact roll. The smooth white strips flowed over her skin and she found it difficult to picture them soaked with blood. Somewhere, she knew, there must be hospitals for the wounded men. Elton Brewster had come back from the war with a patch over one eye. And Danny Woodrow’s older brother, Nick, had a bullet go right through his shoulder. She’d seen the scar herself. Both wounds must have been wrapped in similar cloths, crimson with their blood. But Nick rejoined the army as soon as he was able, and Mr. Brewster could still plow his fields as good as any two-eyed man. And Hannah could hardly imagine the bandages any color but white.
“How is Maddy faring?” Mrs. Carver asked Mama. “Has she been ill?”
“Some.” Mama glanced over at her oldest daughter who sat among her girlfriends teasing and taunting the young men taking over the ball field. “She’s so young. I don’t think she really understands what all this is going to mean.”
“To think a married woman would act in such a way,” Mrs. Clark clucked. “Amelia, I’m shocked that you are sitting here watching her behavior. Go speak to her!”
Mama sighed and ripped another long strip. “She’ll grow up soon enough, Edith.”
Mrs. Carver cut her eyes over to Mama. “And how are you holding up to this pregnancy, Grandma?”
Mama smiled. Then she giggled. “I’m much too young to be a grandmother, you know.”
“Of course you are! Weren’t we just girls ourselves?”
The women fell to reminiscing about their own childhoods, spent in different states far away. Everyone in Michigan came from somewhere else. The state hadn’t even existed when they were young.
Mama looked livelier than she had in weeks. Years fell from her face, and her cheeks glowed rosy with health. But their conversation was interrupted by Mr. Chambers, who jogged into the gathering waving a newspaper in his hand. “The Record just came on the stage. Lincoln has set the slaves free!”
In the stunned silence, the ball fell dead on the pl
aying field. Then excitement broke over the park square, covering it like a wave, soaking it in sound. Everyone spoke at once.
“That’ll teach those traitors!”
“About time the North showed some decisive action.”
“How we gunna enforce such a thing? We can’t even keep the Union together.”
Hannah heard Mr. Stockdale’s voice rise above the others. “I won’t have no part of freeing any darkies! Abe just lost hisself a volunteer.”
The blur of noise swelled and merged until one shouted question brought it to a swift close. “Where’s the Confederate army, Nelson?”
Since Bull Run three weeks ago, the papers had reported that Confederate General Robert Lee had crossed the Susquehanna River and taken the war into northern territory. There had been mention of engagements, but fact and rumor flowed together like mud and water.
Mr. Chambers read aloud in his deep voice, “‘The Maryland campaign continued as Lee pushed farther onto Union soil. Federal troops stationed at Harper’s Ferry were surrounded by a Confederate division and surrendered on September 15. Meanwhile, McClellan repelled further divisions in a series of battles on South Mountain on the 14th.’”
That had been more than a week ago, Hannah realized.
“‘Lee fell back to Sharpsburg. Instead of pressing his advantage, McClellan allowed the southern army to regroup before he attacked at Antietam Creek on September 17. His hesitation may have resulted in the bloodiest day of America’s history, with astounding casualties on both sides, though statistics cannot be conclusive at this time.’”
Mr. Stockdale spit in the dirt with disgust. “McClellan has all the gumption of a maiden aunt. Lincoln better find a general who knows how to fight before this one leaches the life out of our army.”
“Read the casualty roll, Nelson,” someone called over muttered agreement.
Mr. Chambers turned the page and scanned the list of names before he began reading. “‘First Michigan Infantry, Company A: First Lieutenant Willis Harrelson, shot through shoulder; Charles Parsons, leg amputated; Sergeant Samuel Mulligan, killed—’”
Blood of Pioneers Page 6