by Jane Peart
Had her father died in the Lord? Garnet wondered. Had he come to accept Jesus as his Savior before he was struck down with that lightning blow of paralytic stroke? She knew something had happened to change his former agnostic attitude, but when or how it had happened she could not be sure. She remembered his saying sometimes to her mother. "I wish I could believe as whole-heartedly as you do, my dear Kate! That is not to say I don't believe, I just wish I could be convinced. . . ."
Had he been convinced? He looked so wonderfully at peace when she had looked down into that beloved face yesterday. Garnet felt the constriction in her throat, the need to cry as stinging tears sprang into her eyes. She felt her mother's soft hand cover hers in gentle pressure, heard the minister's voice again,. . . "And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying: and there shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away."
Yes, the former things had passed away. That much was true. But what of the rest? Had her father found that those blessed promises are fulfilled?
Garnet fervently hoped so, prayed so.
chapter
30
Now GARNET knew that there would be no son for Bryce, no strong, young boy to ride his father's land, to learn to hunt in his woods or fish in its streams, to grow up and inherit Montclair.
The hope she had wanted to offer Bryce, a reason to go on fighting, to come home to, all vanished and Garnet felt a sense of purposelessness and futility.
It became harder and harder for her to drag herself through each day's duties. She felt helpless and fearful much of the time and yet something stubborn within her refused to give in to her circumstances. Ironically, she thought, since Abraham Lincoln had issued the Emancipation Proclamation, the slaves were free but she wasn't. She was tied to a house that wasn't hers, and had responsibility for three small children and an invalid. Dove and Harmony depended on her, too.
But with the corning of summer, Garnet rallied. The gardens and orchards at Montclair produced an abundance that year, and all of them spent much of every day outside—picking berries, gathering fruit. The children again grew rosy and healthy playing in the fresh air and sunshine, and some days Garnet almost felt happy.
Summer slid away and one dry, warm September day Garnet left the house and walked up along the hillside above the meadows. From there she could look down and see the ribbon of the river in the distance, the wooded area now here and there slashed with the crimson of a maple or red-berry tree against the dark green pines.
At the crest of the hill she turned and sank down on the grass. From where she sat she could see Montclair and the blackened wing with its windows boarded up where the fire had been—the fire that had changed so much for so many.
For her the change had been as sudden as the flames that had swept through that part of the house. For years she had dreamed of being Mistress of Montclair. Now she was, and with that role had come all the unexpected burdens and responsibilities unknown in that childhood dream!
A kind of numbed desolation seized her and she felt a desperate hunger to bring back her yesterdays. She saw them now as she saw Montclair—from a distance, with none of the inevitable flaws, and knew they were just as much a dream as her childish ones.
The idealistic view she had held of her father as invincible, of Malcolm as perfection itself, of her desires as attainable—she now saw as unrealistic fantasy.
She thought of that passage she had recently read in Rose's Bible and now began to understand. "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child." Now it was time "to put away childish things"—but it was hard. Garnet closed her eyes and a parade of all the lovely things that had been part of her youth passed before her—the gentle pattern of days at home, the sound of laughter and soft voices, the sense of comforting security, the low hum of singing from the quarters in summer twilight.
The happiness she had taken so carelessly, never realizing it could not last.
Gone, all gone.
Garnet turned and lay face down on the grass. Grabbing handfuls of it, she buried her head in the meadow fragrance, spreading out her arms on either side. Likeacross, she thought pensively.
That's the way she felt sometimes, stretched to the utmost, broken. She heard that word so much. Especially lately. Sara was "brokenhearted" over Malcolm's imprisonment, over the sad loss of the way of life she once knew.
Brokenness? What do they mean by brokenness? Whenever Garnet had heard that topic preached, she had dismissed it just as she did any other thing she did not understand. This one or that one was "broken"—by bereavement, by sorrow, by losses of all sorts. Even her mother had used the word, saying that her father was "broken in spirit."
But there was another meaning, deeper and more subtle, Garnet was beginning to believe. It was a feeling she was experiencing more and more. That of being spent, devoid of her own strength, relying more and more on God. Almost without her knowing it, it had happened. The weariness, the heartache and, just when she thought she could not bear one more thing, something else always happened.
Yet somehow she had managed to go on, taking care of the children, Sara and the servants. But as though she had some kind of invisible support. They all kept taking from her, drawing their courage, strength and ability to keep going from her, and still she was able to give it. It was as though their need supplied her giving.
It was strange. Again and again she turned to the mystery of it. She had heard once that Jesus had become "broken bread and poured out wine" for the salvation of men to nourish and sustain them.
In a way He was squeezing her by circumstances, by the burden of helpless adults and little children, by privation and loss—squeezing her like grapes into wine. Before all this had happened, before the war, before Rose's death and and all they had to contend with here at Montclair, she had not been "ripe" to be squeezed. She had resisted, railed against her lot, been angry with God, hard. Anything that had come from her then would have been bitter, not fit to nourish or sustain anyone.
But gradually, God had done something in her. She was not even sure what it was, but she had slowly and gradually softened. She had stopped fighting the way things were. She had tried to make the best of what came along. She had tried . . . to love! Loving the children wasn't hard, especially Jonathan, and baby Dru. Alair was a bit difficult sometimes and Harmony impossible . . . unless you laughed at her ineptness. Dove was a darling and not a problem. The servants were, after all, her responsibility, and like children, more easily led by love than harshness. Whatever had happened, God was using her, in spite of herself, to be the kind of "bread and wine" that would benefit others.
Garnet knew she had not completely changed. But she knew she was changing for the better. As the outer things of her life had been stripped away, she had discovered a tiny spark within herself that she was fanning into flame. As her self-interest diminished, her compassion, tolerance, and understanding for others grew.
She no longer had any illusions about herself. She saw herself for what she had been, what she still was. The word "brokenness" again came to mind—this time in a different context.
The more she had read God's Word, the more convicted Garnet had become. The commandments she had learned by rote as a child she now realized she had broken, all of them. Or nearly all.
But as she slowly got to her feet that day and started back to the house, Garnet said with David in his Psalm:
Thou delightest not in burnt offerings. . . .
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit
A broken and contrite heart,
O God, you will not despise.
chapter
31
IT WAS JUST before midday the second week in December. The weather all month had been unusually mild. The rains had ceased and, although the mornings were frosty, by noon each day the sun was bright and warm. The children, released from the confinement of the house during the dreary, gra
y days of November, were playing happily outside.
In the pantry Garnet was helping Tilda store freshly baked pies in the pie-safe when they both heard something, stopped suddenly and stood listening. Then their eyes met, Tilda's widening and Garnet's narrowing, as simultaneously the same thought struck each woman.
"Oh, Lawdee, Miss Garnet—" whispered Tilda in a voice that held the terror that gripped Garnet. The dread word neither of them could utter rose in both throats.
And then Linny, in a high-pitched wail, voiced the word. "Yankees! Yankees!"
Mingled with the terrified cries of the children was the thundering sound of horses' hooves and, as Garnet and Tilda looked out of the windows, they saw the blue-coated men on horseback literally surrounding the house.
Garnet went rigid as the noise and clash of arms rose to a frightening crescendo. Then her brain reacted, activating her muscles, and she rushed out toward the front of the house.
There she found Linny squatting just inside the front door, with baby Druscilla clinging to her. Dove and Harmony were huddled at the foot of the staircase with the two other children, their faces blanched with fear.
When he saw Garnet, Jonathan ran over to her and she lifted him up. From the long windows across the front of the house they could see the driveway, and the sight sent shock waves of horror over them.
The crescent in front of the house was a sea of blue uniforms—at least thirty or more galloping down the road and into the yard, running their horses over garden, bush, shrubs, and lawn. They came like a rushing wind, with loud shouts, blood-chilling yells, rifles lifted, bayonets glinting in the sun. Each new group arrived in the same way, their horses careening, sliding as their riders yanked their reins, sending them into dust-raising spins, their slipping hooves spitting gravel. Some reared, adding their whinnying to the men's strident cheers, shattering the quiet of the afternoon with the piercing noise.
Yankees! The word screamed in Garnet's mind, splintering her courage. Yankees here at Montclair. Her knees wobbled and she swayed, putting out her hand to steady herself on the stairpost.
A series of bangs of the brass knocker crashing against the front door made delay dangerous. Garnet set Jonathan on his feet, and, hoping the sight of this appealing little boy might soften the hearts of whoever was demanding entrance, she took his hand, saying to him in a quick, clear voice, "Now, Jonathan, you come with me. They're nothing but some mean old Yankees, and we're not to be afraid, hear? Your Papa and Uncle Bryce could lick 'em all singlehanded, but they're not here right now to protect us. So you've got to be the man of the house, and we're just going out there and stare 'em in the eye."
Jonathan nodded solemnly.
"Well, come on then," she said, and taking him by the hand, Garnet hurried out to the hall and unlocked the door and opened it.
A a noncommissioned Union officer with a sergeant's chevrons on his sleeves, stood there. He had a broad, weatherbeaten face and looked hardened, battleworn. He gave Garnet a swift, appraising look and no greeting.
"We have come for horses and provisions," he said gruffly. "But we also have orders to search the premises. We've been told this house has harbored rebels"
"There is no one here but defenseless women and children and an invalid, sir. I would hope your men would have the decency not to disturb her further, for her health is very delicate and has probably already suffered great distress at your arrival." Garnet was astonished at how steady her voice was, for her heart was slamming so hard, her knees like water.
"Well, ma'am, as I said, we came for horses and provisions only, not to frighten women and children. So, we'll just be about our business, which should be profitable—" he added with a slight sneer. 'We've heard Montclair keeps a full stable of fine-blooded horses and well-stocked storehouses."
Garnet felt indignation arise in her. What right had these invaders to come on private property and take whatever they wanted? She lifted her chin and took a few steps forward.
"You are mistaken. Most of our horses went with our men into battle. What is left are mainly farm animals, work horses that are needed to work the land and harvest our crops so that we will not be without food."
Again the man's mouth slid sideways, and he gave a scornful, mirthless laugh.
"It's a matter of indifference to us, ma'am, whether you rebels go hungry or starve. We need work horses as well as riding horses, to pull our supply wagons. We'll take whatever we need. But before we do, we have orders to enter this dwelling and search it."
"On whose authority?" Garnet countered, her hand tightening on Jonathan's. "I told you there was no one here but women and children."
"Ma'am, I mean you no personal harm. Just stand aside so my men can enter and search." He turned and waved a squad of five soldiers forward. Five more followed and five after that. They pushed past Garnet and within minutes the house seemed to be swarming with blue-clad soldiers.
"Where do you keep your arms?" the sergeant shouted above the rattle of clanking sabers and spurs as some of the soldiers started upstairs.
"Arms? We have no arms! I told you we are only defenseless women and children here." Garnet started toward the staircase in a futile attempt to stop the never-ending tide of blue coats. "My mother-in-law is a helpless invalid confined to her bed! I beg you, do not allow your men to frighten her by intruding upon her!" Garnet pleaded. Frantically she looked up to the balcony and saw Dove with Dru in her arms run down the hallway toward Sara's suite. Thank God! Garnet thought. Maybe Dove could keep them from entering Sara's room and terrifying her.
The sergeant was paying no attention. He stood at the archway leading into the parlor and was directing his men in their search. Garnet saw them lift the lid of the grand piano, poking down through the strings ruthlessly with rifle butts. She heard the cacophony of strings being broken, the crack of fine wood splintering. They were everywhere, knocking against the delicate end tables, overturning the fragile lyre-backed chairs, yanking open drawers of the French chests flanking the fireplace.
A teakwood chest in the hall was flung open, its contents of linens, tea napkins, and embroidered cloths tossed out carelessly onto the floor, then trampled underfoot as the muddy boots of the men moved on into the dining room.
Garnet followed them in a kind of horrified trance. She saw one soldier try to open the glass-fronted china cabinet and, when it would not open, he took his rifle butt and broke the glass. She spun around and, facing the sergeant who stood in the middle of the hall, his hands on his hips, she implored with flaming eyes.
"Do your men have to do that? How would you like your home to be ransacked, your furniture broken and destroyed?"
"We are only doing our duty, ma'am, following orders," he replied without a change of his stony expression. "We were informed there were weapons stored in this house, and possibly fugitives from the United States government in rebellion." Then he stretched out his huge hand, palm up and demanded harshly. "If you'll give me the keys to any other locked cupboards, chests, trunks ,or closets in which such might be hidden, then my men wouldn't have to use force."
Garnet looked at the shattered priceless china cups, Sara's prized Sevres and Spode, all heirlooms. She felt sick. How could these men do this? They weren't human, she thought with disgust. She gave the sergeant a scathing look and said through clenched teeth "I'll get what keys I have. But from the sound of smashing upstairs, I'm sure I'm too late."
Still holding Jonathan's clammy little hand, she pulled him with her as she walked into the library to Mr. Montrose's desk where a ring of household keys was kept. There she saw more wanton damage. All his fine books had been swept off the shelves, scattered on the floor, kicked aside as the men continued their pointless search.
The sergeant was right behind her and she asked in a voice that shook with fury. "Is this really necessary?" she flung out her arm in a despairing gesture.
Ignoring her question, he said, tight-lipped. "Your keys, ma'am."
Garnet went over
to her father-in-law's massive mahogany desk and drew the keys from the pigeonhole behind its small door. The sergeant was practically stepping on her skirt as she turned to hand them to him. He grabbed them out of her hand, raking the edges along the soft skin of her palm.
Unable to endure what was happening in there, Garnet left just as some of the soldiers had shouldered open the locked door into Mr. Montrose's plantation office off the library. As she went into the hall, she could hear more breakage and stomping behind her.
At the foot of the staircase Garnet was halted by a high-pierced wail from the kitchen area. She whirled around and, dragging Jonathan behind her, ran in that direction. Before she could reach the entryway, she heard the crash of clattering dishes. When she reached the door of the pantry, she saw Carrie cowering against the wall while a hulking soldier shook her by the shoulders so vigorously the girl's head struck the wall.
"Where's the liquor? Speak up, you little—" He called her a terrible name and shouted, "Where does your master keep his spirits?"
"Leave her alone!" rasped Garnet, bending over Carrie.
Suddenly another soldier called out, "Here it is!"
Garnet heard the sound of shattering glass, the splintering of wood, and knew they had broken open the inlaid and beveled glass cabinet in which Mr. Montrose kept his table wines.
Carrie sobbed, "Gawd hep us, Miz Garnet! Dey is takin' ebrything! Robbin' us ob all de food. I done tole 'em what little we had was mostly fo' de chillun."
"Never mind, Carrie. You take Jonathan. I'll try to stop them," Garnet said, her voice choked with anger. Her blood was pounding in her head, her breath shallow. She picked up her skirts and ran back into the kitchen. There she met a sight that defied description.
Soldiers were flinging sacks of potatoes, onions, and yams over their shoulders and disappearing with them out the back door and through the breezeway, tossing them across the saddles of their horses they had tethered to the posts. Then back they rushed, heaving sacks of cornmeal and flour in the same way.