Beyond All Price

by Carolyn Poling Schriber

  Een dat time, Caesar Augustus been de big leada, de emperor ob de Roman people. E make a law een all de town een de wol weh e habe tority, say ebrybody haffa go ta town faa count by de hed and write down e nyame.

  Nellie found herself translating in her head:

  And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed . . . And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

  The simplicity and beauty of Letitia’s version took nothing away from the story, while making it immediate and understandable to the children.

  They clustered close to her, eyes wide, mouths open in wonder, as she recited the story of Jesus’ birth. As she reached the part where the animals of the stable knelt down to the baby, one of the horses whinnied from its stall and everyone—Nellie included—gasped. It was a magical moment, one Nellie would remember for years whenever she heard the verses from the Gospel of Luke. A bit later, it was the sound of singing that moved her, as the crowd marked the end of Letitia’s recital with several spirituals.

  Nellie was still standing in the shadows of the porch, unwilling to turn her back on this demonstration of simple faith, when out of the darkness came a shaky little voice. “Miss Nellie? Kin I talks to you?”

  “Glory! You startled me, Child. Of course, come up here and sit with me.”

  “I’se not ‘llowed to go up des steps, Miss Nellie. Dat’s de big house. Kin you lean over here?”

  Nellie hurried down the steps to join the child on her level. “What is it, honey? Are you still feeling puny?”

  “No, M’am. I’se fine. But dis little kitty’s sick. Her mama won’t take care of her, and I’s ‘fraid she be gonna die. And I can’t lets her die on Christmas!”

  In the light from the fire, Nellie saw the child was holding a small basket with some rags in it. And huddled among the rags was the tiniest kitten Nellie had ever seen. She was pure white, and she looked up at Nellie with two huge eyes that did not match. One was blue, the other green.

  Gently Nellie picked her up, noting that the tiny ears were limp and the body under the fur had little substance to it. “Poor thing, I think she’s hungry.”

  “Yes’m. De moma cat won’t let her nurse no more.”

  “Well, come with me, both of you. We’ll find some milk in the warming kitchen.” Once there, Nellie twisted a scrap of cloth to a point, dipped it into some warm cream, and pushed it into the kitten’s mouth. After an initial splutter or two, the kitten latched onto the cloth and began to suck.

  “Why don’t her mama like her, Miss Nellie?”

  “I don’t know, Glory. Maybe she has too many kittens to feed?”

  “No, M’am. Dere only be three in de litter.”

  “Hmmmm. There’s an old wives’ tale about cats. Let me try something.” Nellie reached behind her and pushed an iron pot lid to the stone floor. Glory screeched and jumped at the sudden clatter. The kitten never stopped sucking. “I think she’s deaf,” Nellie said. “White cats with mismatched eyes often are.”

  “But why don’t her mama feel sorry fo’ her, den?” Glory demanded.

  “Maybe she thinks she’s too weak to survive. But I’ll tell you what. I think we can make her strong again. Will it be all right if I keep her for a little while?”

  “Oh, yes, M’am. I was hopin’ you would. She could be your cat, an’ I could visit her all de time.”

  Nellie smiled at the child’s earnestness. “Thank you for bringing me a cat, Glory. She makes a nice Christmas present. What shall we name her?

  “She look like a little cotton ball.”

  “Then Cotton she will be! Now you best get back before your mama misses you. Come visit her tomorrow.”

  “Oh I will. G’night, Miss Nellie. G’night, Cotton.”

  After the joyous celebrations of the slaves, Christmas Day at Roundheads Headquarters moved from somber to dismal as the day progressed. The staff officers started the morning by traipsing out to the Presbyterian church, where they expected Reverend Browne to rejoice in his recovery and in the true meaning of the holiday. Instead, he treated them to a grim picture of the Holy Family, driven out of Bethlehem by the evil actions of Herod and into exile in the barren land of Egypt. With the help of Browne’s clever rhetoric, Herod appeared as Jefferson Davis, ordering the slaying of young black children. The angel’s voice became that of Lincoln, calling on all good Christian men to travel to a distant land to save their country. Egypt’s shore took on the characteristics of the Atlantic coast, complete with sea grass to replace the bullrushes. Sand was sand, and the message was clear. This was an exile, one to be suffered willingly until the good Lord chose to send the Roundheads home. Instead of Christmas carols, Browne called the men to sing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” a hymn rousing enough, but certainly not designed to put the regiment in a holiday mood. They left the church gloomily reminded of their own exile.

  Back at the Leverett House, Bessie the cook had outdone herself to prepare a Christmas feast. First, she sent out oysters on the half shell, followed by a fish soup brimming with clams, shrimp, and chunks of snapper. Then the slave girls brought the main feast while the startled Roundheads watched in amazement. At one end of the side board, a fat turkey spilled forth his chestnut and cornbread stuffing. At the other end sat a roasted boar’s head, apple in mouth, ready for carving should anyone be brave enough to tackle the chore. In between were bowls of sweet potatoes, green beans, field peas, rice, gravy, turnip greens, and tiny broiled quail. The finishing touch—blackberry and pecan pies, sugar cookies and gingerbread men, and a formidable fruitcake—awaited the diners on the back buffet server.

  The staff took their places at what had become a banquet table, draped in fine linen to set off the decorated china service and the sparkling silver. All were still dressed in their church-going finery, so they presented a handsome picture. Nellie lingered until last, making sure all was in order. Then she slipped into her accustomed place at the foot of the table, facing Colonel Leasure, who commanded the attention of the table.

  “Reverend Browne, will you lead us in the. . . .”

  “Mrs. Leath!” the chaplain’s voice interrupted. “You are too presumptuous. The occasion of a holiday meal does not give you permission to take a position that does not belong to you. Please join the rest of the servants for your dinner.”

  Nellie caught her breath and fumbled with her napkin as she tried to push the chair back from the table. She knew tears were brimming beneath her lids, and instead of a blessing on this food, her only prayer was that she could escape the room without crying.

  But Colonel Leasure was as quick to shout, “No, Nellie! Don’t you dare move.”

  The others were frozen witnesses. Most of the officers were staring at their laps because they did not want to watch the coming clash. The slaves visibly shrank into themselves, as if they feared the boiling anger in the room would eventually find its way onto their own shoulders and backs. No one seemed to breathe.

  Colonel Leasure stood, stretching his small stature as best he could, to take a position of command over the table. “Robert, my friend,” he began, the coldness of his voice belying the word friend. “You are still unwell. I apologize for asking you to join us this day before you have gained complete control of your faculties. Obviously, you need to return to your room to rest.”

  “I need no such thing. And there’s nothing wrong with my faculties.” Now the chaplain stood, his tall skinny figure towering over the stocky little man who had confronted him. “That woman,” he shouted, pointing his finger at Nellie, “is not your wife and not the mistress of this house. She is a common doxie, dragged in off the street, and she has made a complete fool of you. If you want to imperil your immortal soul through your sinful acts, I suppose there is nothing I can do to stop you. But I will not sit at this table and watch her flaunt herself as your mistress before men who are required to respect you in battle. This situation is intolerable, and I will not
be a part of it.” He threw his napkin to the seat of the chair and crashed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  If there had been a contest to determine who was whiter—Nellie or the colonel—the judges would have had an impossible task. The silence lasted too long, and the players on this impromptu stage could not bring themselves to move. The slaves were rolling their eyes as they tried to glimpse each other’s reactions. Nellie sat with head bowed, tears dripping unnoticed into her lap.

  At last, Colonel Leasure spoke. “Do the rest of you feel the same way as Reverend Browne?” he asked.

  “Father, how can you even ask such a question?” Geordy was the first to answer, and he thus released the others to join him in a chorus of indignation at the chaplain’s remarks.

  “Mrs. Leath has done nothing but good for this regiment.”

  “She’s the heart of the regiment, if you ask me.”

  “Surely, the Reverend didn’t mean to imply that you. . . .”

  “No! No one thinks that.”

  “What kind of a sick mind comes up with that sort of idea?”

  “Look at what she’s done for us this Christmas Day, and he’s gone and ruined it!”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Geordie said. “We don’t need to let his distorted ideas upset us. Let’s show him what we think by enjoying this feast. Nellie, ask the servants to pass the potatoes.”

  Even Nellie was forced to smile as she watched the young men devour the Christmas feast Bessie had planned for them. It would take more than a few moments of unpleasantness to kill their appetites. She also wanted to smile at their affirmation of her part in the regiment. Still, there was a hot lump in her throat that let her swallow only a few morsels of the meal. And she could not bring herself to look at the colonel. The words of the attack kept echoing in her ears: “doxie,” “off the street,” “sinful,” “flaunt herself.”

  Colonel Leasure ate his dinner in silence, waiting until all were finished before he spoke again. “A fine meal. You serve us well, Nellie, as matron of the regiment and as mistress in this house. I propose we postpone our desserts until we are joined by the rest of our guests. In little over half an hour, we will open the house to all Union officers who care to join us in our holiday celebrations. The women have prepared an interesting syllabub, along with a non-alcoholic punch and an assortment of Christmas cakes and other delicacies. The regimental band will be playing carols in the front yard, and there will be games in the park across the street. I expect each man of you to be present to help our guests feel welcome. And Nellie, you will assume your rightful place at the front door to welcome every one of them. The chaplain will be kept to his room, if I have to lock him in.” With that pronouncement, the colonel stood and strode out of the dining room, his exit accompanied by more than one chuckle.

  The crisis passed, at least temporarily. The next hours were filled with the demands of hospitality. The house quickly filled, and not only with the staff of the Roundhead Regiment. General Stevens showed up early, accompanied by his brigade officers. That was no surprise, of course. General Stevens was famous for his ability to scent out any affair at which alcohol might be playing a part. The other regiments, too, began to arrive—the Pennsylvanians from the Fiftieth, followed by the New York Highlanders, and the Michiganders. No other regimental commander had thought to throw a reception for his own men, so the Roundheads played host to the entire brigade.

  It was not was a terribly merry celebration, but it was loud. The syllabub, whose ingredients Colonel Leasure professed not to know, was a tremendous hit. Nellie knew, because she had helped whip it, that it contained a bottle of brandy and a bottle of port in addition to the usual ingredients. As the afternoon progressed, however, she noticed the level of the punch bowl never seemed to decrease, although many cups were being filled from it. Doubting this was evidence of one of Reverend Browne’s miracles, she watched closely and had only to wait a few minutes to catch an officer surreptitiously emptying the contents of a pocket flask into the bowl. Some gentlemen, well-schooled in their manners, brought a Christmas gift of wine with them, and those bottles, too, were finding their way to the punch bowl. Nellie hurried out to find Bessie, to see if she could dilute the alcohol with a bit more whipped milk.

  As usual, the cook was already prepared. “Don’ you worry, Miss Nellie. I’s pourin’ in more milk ever’ time dey adds more likker. At least it be gonna coat dere stomachs.”

  The party drew to a close at nightfall, and at last Nellie could retire to her own room. She needed more than anything to be alone, to have some time to sort out the emotional upheavals that had ripped through the center of her day. No sooner had she sat down than little Cotton scrambled up into her lap, where she used Nellie’s arm as a support for a kitten bath. You’re right, little one, Nellie thought. I need to lick my wounds, too. She held her tight and let the hot tears flow at last.

  ggg

  16

  New Year, New Beginnings

  Nellie awakened on the day after Christmas with a new sense of determination, fueled by righteous anger. I am not going to stay in a place where my virtue and competence are forever being challenged, she told herself. This was exactly the situation she had imagined when she refused to sign up as an official member of the regiment, back at Kalorama. She would inform Colonel Leasure she was leaving, pack her satchel with the few belongings she had brought with her, catch a ride with the first person to pass through Beaufort on their way to Hilton Head, and then book passage on the next steamer leaving for the North. It didn’t matter to her where it might be going. She wanted to be gone.

  That storm of indignation carried her resolutely out into the hall and then diminished to a whimper as she discovered the door to Colonel Leasure’s office standing ajar and the office empty. Well, he must be here somewhere, she told herself, re-squaring her shoulders and stomping down to the dining room. It was also empty, although it showed signs of some early breakfast activity. Mugs of lukewarm coffee, scattered crumbs on the table, and chairs hastily pushed back suggested a stand-up snack.

  “What in the world is going on?” she asked out loud, not really expecting an answer from the empty walls.

  “If you be lookin fo’ de kernel, dey all be long gone,” Uncle Bob responded from the doorway.

  Nellie whirled around, more startled than she cared to admit. “Gone? Where would they all have gone so early on Boxing Day?”

  “I’s sure I doesn’t know what Boxing Day be, M’am, but we was woken up before daylight by dat dere Gen’ Stevens a bangin’ on de fron’ door. He shouted dey was all to meet at General Wright’s headquarters in a half hour. De kernel an’ all de other staff went barrellin’ outta here as soon as dey was dressed.”

  “Were they armed? I mean, were they in full uniform? Did they look like they were headed into a battle?”

  “Nah, Miss Nellie, dey was jus’ a ragged bunch, slappin’ saddles on whatever nags dey could get to in de stables and gallopin’ out o’ here like de house was on fire.”

  Her determination to leave was now thoroughly deflated. “Is there anyone else here?”

  “No, M’am. Jist you. Guess you be in change of all of us ‘til somebody gits back.”

  “Wonderful. Then send Maybelle in here with some hot breakfast for me, and tell her to straighten up this mess.”

  Nellie lingered over her breakfast, enjoying the unusual peace and quiet. Life around here would be pretty good if it weren’t for the men, she thought with a half smile.

  Then, as if a stray thought could break a spell, Doctor Ludington entered the dining room. He looked a bit flushed and windblown, as if he had returned from a brisk ride. “Doctor Ludington! Uncle Bob told me everyone had gone. Have you been here all along? Do you know what’s happening? Are we under attack?”

  “No, Nellie, nothing as dramatic as all that. The staff was summoned to the Vernier House this morning because General Wright wanted to plan a campaign. The others are still there, plotting away. I
came back because my only duty, and yours, will be to keep the hospital and home fires burning.”