Hannah blocked out his voice as it droned on and on; there were just too many names to absorb. Instead she focused on her mother, noticing the fine lines spreading from the corners of her eyes like cracks in plaster. Mama’s fingers were interwoven so tightly with those of Mrs. Carver they had turned bone white. Hannah had once seen such an expression of intense concentration on a barn cat just before it sprang on a mouse.
At last, far down the page, Mr. Chambers reached the Seventeenth, her father’s regiment, and she turned her attention back with an unfamiliar prickle of apprehension.
“‘—Company D: Charles Denny, killed; Daniel Forrester, head wound; Edward Blake, arm; Ralph Douglass, killed; Seth Wallace, finger—’”
A finger! Seth had lost a finger! She laughed out loud in her relief, drawing daggers of reproach from those around her. What a whopping story Seth would have to tell when he got home. She almost envied him. She was so delighted she almost missed the rest of the roll.
“‘—Orvil Peterson, killed; Benjamin Ross, killed; Tommy Stockdale, killed; George Hess, arm amputated—’”
A scream brought Hannah back to her senses. Maddy had collapsed, her body pooling in a lifeless puddle on the grass. Mama rushed to her, merged with her into a miserable heap, stroked her hair if she were still a little girl.
Not Tommy!
A smoky haze touched Hannah’s eyes, burning them, blurring them. It couldn’t be Tommy. Not Tommy, with his mischievous wink and his impish grin, with his baby on the way.
Suddenly Sue Ellen was beside her, propping her up, sliding an arm around her waist. Hannah leaned into her. Had Tommy even known he was going to be a father? What was Maddy going to do without him?
Her tears flowed then. Filling her. Flooding her.
Through a watery veil, she saw Mr. Stockdale trying to comfort his wife, not an ounce of bluster left in him. His son, it seemed, wouldn’t be fighting for any darkies after all.
Chapter 9
“Why, Molly, what a pleasant surprise!” Mama exclaimed when she opened the door to her neighbor’s knock. “Come in! Would you like a cup of tea?” She signaled to Hannah to put the kettle on the stove.
“Thank you, Amelia, but I really can’t stay. I just—”
Justin popped his head in the doorway, his hands still wrapped with the yarn Mama had been winding into a ball. “Did Peter come with you?”
“Justin!” Mama scolded. “You know better than to interrupt.”
“Sorry, Mama.”
Mrs. Patton smiled hesitantly. “Peter’s at home finishing his chores, which brings me to the reason for my call. You see, my husband usually rounds up our horses in October.” She paused.
Mama put a hand on her arm. “No bad news, I hope?”
“Oh, no! Josiah’s fine. His enlistment will be up in another month. It’s just that I hate to come asking for help when you have so much trouble of your own.”
Mama seemed to shrink. “Everyone has trouble. What can we do for you, Molly?”
“Well, Peter is a strong boy for his age, but the herd has been running wild all summer. I’m afraid an eight-year-old is just not up to some of those unbroken yearlings.”
Joel sat in the gathering room, listening. “I’ll bring the herd in for you, ma’am,” he offered, setting down his newspaper.
Relief loosened the woman’s smile. “I’ll pay you a dollar.”
“There’s no need for that. Be glad to.”
“Nonsense. I need the work done, and if I’m to drag you away from your own chores, I insist that you take it.”
“We accept gratefully,” Mama put in. “Thank you, Molly. You’re sure you won’t stay for tea?”
“I can’t. I have to finish a new shirt for Peter. It’s astonishing how quickly one boy grows.”
“Say hello to him for me,” Justin called.
Mrs. Patton waved in reply as she stepped outside. “Oh, I almost forgot!” she exclaimed, rummaging in her apron pocket. “I picked up this letter for you at the post office this afternoon.”
Mama’s fingers trembled as she reached for it. Joel closed the door as Mama sank into her rocking chair. Hannah and Justin gathered around.
Joel took the letter and opened it, reading in a low voice.
September 19, 1862
My beloved family,
By the time you read this, news will have reached you of South Mountain and Antietam. I posted this as soon as possible to relieve your concerns. By the grace of God, I am whole and Seth is well. How I wish I could say as much for the rest of my company. We have lost so many!
My heart is especially heavy for our dear daughter. You can tell her that Tommy fought bravely, and that he died a hero, helping a comrade off the field. And let her know her letter arrived in time. For one night, Tommy was the proudest papa you could ever imagine. He is sorely missed.
A sob interrupted Joel’s reading, and the flash of Maddy’s yellow dressing gown disappeared around the stairway wall. For ten days, ever since Tommy’s memorial service, she had taken to her bed. Mama brought up meals that remained mostly untouched, and Hannah had begun sleeping on the sofa so she wouldn’t be wakened by her sister’s wracking sobs in the middle of the night.
Tommy’s death had left Hannah deeply saddened. She had always liked Tommy, and she regretted that he’d only been in the family a short time. But when the immediate shock of his passing wore off, life went on for her as it always did. She even harbored a secret relief that it was neither Seth nor Pa who had died.
Mama sighed, deep and broken. “Keep reading, Joel. I’ll tend her when you’ve finished.”
I will spare you further details of the battlefield. Let it suffice to say that war is a horror God never intended his creation to suffer. But it is also a crucible that shows each man the purity or contamination of his own character. The 17th Michigan has done itself proud. Our boys stood firm as granite, even in the face of death. There are some who have taken to calling us “The Stonewall Regiment” because we could not be moved.
We are holed up for the time being, licking our wounds. McClellan has not pursued Lee, a choice for which he is taking heat from some individuals. He has made mistakes, but I would not want to fill his shoes, so I will remain silent.
Your letters conjure up familiar visions that sustain me through my worst moments. I am pleased to hear that home, at least, has known peace and prosperity. I know it must be difficult with Seth and me gone, but I am confident you will manage just fine. I am so proud of your hard work. I miss you all terribly and long for the day I can set foot again on my own little piece of the earth.
With all my love,
Henry Stanton Wallace
Seth had enclosed a letter in the same envelope. Joel read:
September 20, 1862
Dear Mama and everybody,
I am so angry and frustrated I could scream! It is no wonder this war has lasted so long. The Union army is commanded by idiots. General McClellan, especially, is an incompetent nincompoop. I found out he had Lee’s battle plan in his hand. By some miraculous chance, Lee mislaid it and it was picked up by some of our boys. McClellan could have pounded him! But as usual he took a day and a half to act, and our chance was lost. By the time we received marching orders, Lee had plugged up the passes through the Blue Ridge and we had to fight our way through South Mountain where we lost many men.
Then, when both armies gathered at Sharpsburg, McClellan further proved his ineptitude. We vastly outnumbered Lee, but McClellan failed to make a coordinated assault. Besides that, he held back a quarter of the army. They didn’t even fight! Had that featherhead poured on all our strength in a united attack, Lee would have had to surrender. He was backed up against the Potomac River with nowhere to go.
Our own corps commander, General Burnside, is no less a fool. He spent hours throwing our boys at a bridge over Antietam Creek when we could have waded the blasted thing only a few yards away, out of enemy fire. It was useless slaughter and it stalled our corps
for hours when we might have aided the attack.
Thousands and thousands of good boys fell at Antietam. You could never imagine the number, Mama. They were tumbled over each other in piles, North and South together. And for what? They tell me we won a victory. But we could have ended the war.
I tell you, if a bullet doesn’t get me first, I’m going to die of frustration and anger.
Your affectionate son,
Seth Wallace
Seth’s reckless energy transferred to Hannah as she listened to his account. The same blood flowed through her veins, the same fire. With Tommy’s passing the battlefield lost some of its luster, but she still yearned for the adventure her brother was living. She was the daughter of pioneers! Would she always be stuck in this stale corner of the Union? She scowled out at the growing darkness, chafing at her own dumb luck.
The evening was warm, and night sounds floated in the open window: crickets and cicadas and tree frogs by the hundreds. The trees had begun dropping their leaves, and October would soon usher in frost. Even now a cool breeze gusted into the gathering room. Hannah reached to shut the window, and the breeze whisked her hair back from her face. She paused, an idea taking root in her mind.
She couldn’t join Seth, but maybe Wayland still held an adventure or two.
~
The next morning Hannah made another delivery of eggs to Mr. Lawson. But this time she snuck away without changing into her dress. And before leaving, she filled her pockets with corn and tied Seth’s oldest straw hat on her head.
Mr. Lawson looked up in surprise, taking in her unusual appearance. “Is this how your mother is dressing you now?”
She grinned. “Don’t tell her. She’d take a switch to me.”
“I see. Well, it is sensible, I suppose.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And the hat is much better than some of Mrs. Clark’s creations.”
Hannah giggled and handed Mr. Lawson the eggs. “Mama wants to put the money on our bill.”
“That would be fine.” He made the tabulation and handed the basket back.
“Can I leave that here for now? I’ll pick it up later.”
He shrugged and tucked it behind the counter. “All right with me.”
“Thanks. See you later.”
“’Bye, Hannah. Tell your mother I’ll be over this afternoon to speak with her.”
“I will!”
She crossed quickly to the post office. “Hello, Mr. Briggs. Got a letter here for Pa.”
“Good morning, Hannah.” The postman hopped off his stool and added the envelope to a stack of outgoing mail. “That was a mighty speedy reply. I hope it doesn’t mean your menfolk aren’t well,” he prompted.
“They’re both fine. You know Pa. He’d find something good to say even if the sun went dark. But Seth is shooting enough sparks to set the whole army ablaze. They ought to make him general.”
As she spoke, Hannah heard the dull rattle of many hooves approaching. Mr. Briggs consulted his pocket watch. “Morning stage, two minutes early.”
Moments later, the vehicle pulled up in front of the Wayland House where Hannah could see it through the window. Several passengers alighted and entered the hotel, but one gentleman in a top hat sought out the driver and berated him heartily. The driver let him wind down then simply pointed toward the toll booth.
“Seth’s finger doesn’t bother him much?” Mr. Briggs fished, eager for details.
“Doesn’t seem to. His writing reads fine anyway.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Folks have been asking about him, you know.”
“I’m sure they have.”
She turned to leave, but the gentleman from the stage had reached the booth and rapped sharply on the window. Mr. Briggs slid it open. “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”
The man had heavy brows that puckered in an ill-tempered frown. His clothes appeared fashionable and well-tailored, but at close range Hannah could see his top hat looked rather mashed.
“You can tell your company this road is abominable,” the man complained. “When I set out from Plainwell this morning, this hat was new.”
“I do apologize,” Mr. Briggs said hastily. “I’ve hit my head myself a time or—”
“And,” the man continued, sweeping his headwear away to reveal a shiny bald scalp, “I had hair!”
Hannah clapped a hand over her mouth and left Mr. Briggs to his dilemma.
A mile north of the crossroads, the Rabbit River arced around town like rope hung over a nail. Hannah jogged up the Plank Road past the tannery to where the river flowed through a broad, stumpy meadow. She and Wes sometimes came here to fish, and almost every time, the Patton’s herd of quarter horses made an appearance to graze on the sweet grass.
She sat down to wait on one of the stumps in the middle of the field where she could catch the sun’s weak, early rays when it peeked from behind the clouds. The grass was cold and wet on her bare feet. She shivered and tucked them underneath her.
She didn’t have long to wait. Within the hour, pounding hooves echoed through the woods and all seven of Mr. Patton’s remaining animals pranced out into the field, the youngest ones kicking up their heels in a wild display of energy. One of the mares lowered its head to graze, and eventually the others followed her example.
Hannah left her rock and slowly approached them. A few of the closer horses pricked up their ears and looked at her, but most paid her little mind. She picked out the one she knew to be the fastest—a three-year-old stallion with a white blaze down its nose—and pulled a handful of grain from her pockets.
The rattle and smell of corn drew inquisitive glances all around, but only the stallion plodded nearer, stretching out its neck and blowing moist heat onto Hannah’s hand. She emptied her pockets and poured the grain into a pile on the ground. The horse plunged its muzzle in, and while it was distracted, she leaped onto its back.
The stallion snorted with surprise. Five months had passed since it carried a rider. It flung up its legs and tossed its head, but Hannah stuck like a flea on a dog, squeezing her knees and knotting her fingers in the long mane. The stallion plunged back to earth, bolting as soon as its feet touched the ground.
Instantly the world blurred. Hannah could hardly draw breath against the wind that pressed her face. Even on Rounder she had never known such speed. She thrilled with the hot power beneath her and with the sheer, wild danger as the stallion sprinted across the meadow. She felt completely free. Free from the suffocating crowd of her siblings, free from the pressure of living up to her brothers, free from the life of work and boredom she was bound to.
After a minute or two the stallion’s reckless pace fell off, but it continued running with smooth, powerful strides that ate up the ground. A glance behind showed the whole herd plunging along in their wake, following their leader like dutiful soldiers.
After three easy miles, the Lumberton mill came into view. Hannah snatched the hat off her head and waved it beside the stallion’s head to turn it. With another burst of speed, it swerved onto the old Indian trail that had been so important before the Plank Road went through. She let the stallion choose its pace, using her hat again only to guide it onto the wagon track that led past the Wallace farm and on to the Pattons’.
Breaking out of the woods, she nearly ran over Mr. Covington who had set up his easel at the edge of the field. She whooped the stallion back up to full speed, laughing as the startled man stumbled out of the way with his paints spilling and his canvas toppling.
An easy canter brought them to the Patton pasture. Hannah guided the stallion through the gate and rolled off its back, fastening the barrier behind the last horse. The herd circled twice, manes tossing and tails streaming proudly. Their nostrils flared and their sleek sides heaved as they sucked in breath, but within minutes their breathing regulated and they fell again to grazing.
Mrs. Patton stopped by at lunchtime to drop off the dollar. “Joel was so prompt,” she complimented, “and he didn’t even
stay to collect his pay.”
When the door closed behind her, Mama turned puzzled eyes on Joel. “I thought you and Justin brought the pumpkins into town today. Whenever did you find time?”
Joel started to speak when Hannah’s wide grin caught his eye. Her secret passed between them. He winked—a barely perceptible flutter of his eyelashes—and answered Mama with a careless shrug.
~
That evening, Mr. Lawson appeared at the door with his hat held in his big hands. “Good evening, Mrs. Wallace. I was wondering if I could speak with you a moment?”
“Of course, Mr. Lawson. Do come in.” She held the door wide and the shopkeeper stood looking about uncertainly. “Can I offer you a bite of supper? We’re just about to sit down.”
“That’d be mighty fine,” he answered with an appreciative smile. “I get right tired of my own cooking.”
Justin piped up from his seat at the table, “You oughta get married so your wife can cook for you. How come you never did?”
Hannah set a platter of flapjacks on the table and cuffed him on the back of the head. “Women can do more than cook.”
“Justin, Hannah, that’s enough. Let’s sit down. Mr. Lawson, you may take Henry’s seat at the head of the table.”
“Mama, I don’t think I could keep a thing down tonight.” Maddy rubbed her belly, but the look of distrust she aimed at the shopkeeper betrayed her real reasons for fleeing. Mama let her go without an argument.
After grace, the shopkeeper savored a syrup-soaked bite. “Mmm. Hannah, you’re right, of course, but if I happened on a woman that cooked like your mama, I confess I just might take the plunge.”
Justin gave Hannah a smug look, and she pulled a face in his direction. “I’m never getting married,” she announced.
Mama looked up in surprise. “Hannah, what a thing to say! Why on earth not?”
Blood of Pioneers Page 7