T he war is over; the war is over!” the courier yelled to Maggie. “Lee surrendered to Grant in Virginia April 9! And President Lincoln is dead! Shot just yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
The rider put his hand to his hat. “Yes, ma’am, the way I heard it, President Lincoln and his wife was seeing Our American Cousin at the Ford’s Theatre right there in Washington D.C. and this fellow named Booth—”
“John Wilkes Booth?” Maggie laid her hand to her heart. She had watched his performance in Knoxville.
Maggie’s father grabbed the courier, nearly pulling him off his horse. “Are you sure Lincoln’s dead?”
“Yes, sir.” Fright filled the young boy’s eyes.
She tugged on her father’s sleeve and whispered, “He’s only a child.”
Her father looked down at her from the tips of his spectacles. “Child? Why I had a dozen of them, fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys in my league. There are no children in the south, just young adults.”
The boy handed her father a paper, his hand shaking. “Here, this tells all about Lee’s surrender.” He placed his foot in his iron stirrup.
“Wait, please.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Are there any letters for me?”
The boy fumbled in his knapsack. “No ma’am.” He looked apologetically at her from the seat of his saddle. “Don’t worry, ma’am, the mail has slowed down some.” He sped down the road, dust flying like a thundercloud behind his horse’s feet.
She should have known the war was over, or nearly so, when Noah and some of their other slaves came back saying the soldiers didn’t need them to dig the ditches for them anymore.
Noah walked up with a few of their field hands. Rakes and shovels lay over their shoulders, ready to work. “Master Gatlan, what does this all mean?”
Maggie turned, joining her father and smiled. “It means you are free to leave Spirit Wind.”
The men muttered with one another, then Noah shuffled his big feet toward her. “We know that, but what if we don’t want to? My family ’n me, we got no place to go.” His big eyes pleadingly looked into hers.
Her father rocked on his heels, his hands in his pockets. “Would you like to continue working on the work gangs with the other plantation owners? Planting the cotton field?”
Noah took this back to the growing group of men. Noah’s muscular shoulders slumped forward, his tattered shirt only coming to his elbows. “No sir, we don’t like those other blacks, theys lazy.”
Her father smiled. “Indeed. Well you should know. We’ll figure something out. But I got to tell you, I don’t have much to feed you. The Yanks took it all.” Father sighed. “All we’ve got left is land. Hopefully, my daughter’s teaching will come in handy for you, if it comes to selling the farm….”
“No’um, you can’t be doin’ that, Master Gatlan.” Noah looked at Maggie and a big smile lit up his worried face. “Yes’um, Miss Maggie’s teachin’ sure helped us. Will Miss Maggie be starting up the school again in the Glenn?”
Her father hadn’t heard a word. He was wiping the dust from his face, staring down at the paper. “And the war’s been over for a week and we’re just getting the news. Should we go tell our neighbors Lincoln has been assassinated?” Her father began to pace.
Maggie turned to Noah. “Go to the back field near the swamp and dig up that burlap bag of seeds we hid. Then start on that back field. Plant the sweet potatoes, corn, and beans. We’ll be needing food first.”
“Yes’um, Miss Maggie. We’ll head right out.”
“My bonds, my Confederate money… we’re ruined, daughter.” He threw down the paper. “There was some hope I could talk with Lincoln, but now…” Her father punched his fist in his hand. “Lincoln. I curse the day I met him. He was going to help the South get on its feet again. Just how is he planning to help now that he’s dead?”
“It’s not his fault, Father.”
“What about his promises? Let me see if there’s anything in here about him saying what his plans were for reconstructing the South.”
“Andrew Johnson’s the president now, Father. He’s a southerner from our state of Tennessee. Surely he’ll be lenient and help restore the South back to a prosperous establishment.”
“Johnson’s a Jacksonian scalawag. Not fit to be bearing the title of Southern Gentleman.” Father glanced down at his paper. “Says here Sherman issued orders back in January of this year to confiscate the land in Georgia and South Carolina to be redistributed to freed slaves. According to this, about 400,000 acres of farmland have been divided amongst 10,000 freed slaves. Looks like they got forty acres, and many of the slaves received mules.” Her father slapped the newspaper. “Well, when our slaves find out, they’ll most likely go.” Father sat down heavily on the wrought iron chair beneath the veranda.
“We’re bankrupt, daughter, bankrupt in every way except our land. All I can do is maybe lease some land to each family. I’ll draw up a contract, that’s what I’ll do and plot out forty acres to each, I could buy the seed, they can work it like it was their own and give me a piece of what they harvest. Only, they’d have to be their overseer, have to be frugal with their money and time.”
Maggie plopped down in the adjoining chair. “Sort of like what Ben and his family did in Ireland.”
Her father looked at her. “I know what you’re thinking. But it won’t be that difficult for them to get ahead. They won’t pay rent, nor buy the seed. I’m just asking for a fair share of their crops. I’ll pay the property taxes. I’m taking more of a gamble than they are. Hopefully, I’ll get enough produce to pay for next year’s seed and this year’s taxes.”
Cook came forward, setting down the hominy for her father and Maggie.
Her father pushed the bowl aside and grabbed up his paper.
“Don’t you go and turn up your nose to my food. Now you eat. It’s nourishing and we’s got a powerful amount of work to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Father smiled. When Cook’s heavy steps receded into the house, Father turned. “We don’t even have a bank anymore in the whole south, Maggie. If Lincoln had lived, I know he wouldn’t have allowed this to happen to us. He loved everything connected with these United States.” Her father slapped his hand down on the table. “I know what I’ll do, I’ll go and visit with President Johnson, find out his intentions.”
Maggie looked at her porridge and muttered, “I just wish you could find out a certain Irishman’s intentions.”
Her father’s face softened. “I shall, daughter. I will go to Washington by train and stop in Kentucky to see this young gentleman of yours, this, this Mr. McConnell. Though I do not care for his manners, not one bit; we southerners should marry within our society—”
“Like marrying like.”
“Yes. Will would make you a fine husband.” Her father bent forward, kissing her on the cheek. He had done that to mother, oh so many years ago. She liked pleasing Father. Life was so peaceful when she did.
His footsteps on the brick walkway receded as he strolled into the house, and she was left with her memories. Ben had said that very same thing the last time he had kissed her. “Like should marry like.”
After breakfast, Maggie went to her desk and drew out the copy of Lincoln’s second Inaugural address. Caressing the newspaper with her fingers, she smoothed out the folds. It had been a source of strength to her father, knowing the South was on its last brave battle. A moonbeam of hope had rested upon them from Lincoln’s words that their lovely world would survive after the war. She skimmed down the page for a specific passage.
“Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged.…
“Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. …With malice
toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.”
Maggie blinked back her tears. She would cling to the mercy of their benevolent Savior that God would make these southern states into a mighty fortress for Jesus. For only God and His Son, Jesus Christ, could save them from hating their northern brother.
Chapter 32
T he rain hadn’t let up for three days. Ben had planted his corn, vegetables, and tobacco. Still, he’d planned to plant more. But the month of May had been nothing but storms. He couldn’t stay in that lonely cabin any longer. Mr. Gatlan’s words plagued the very walls. “Like should marry like.”
Mr. Gatlan and Big Jim had sat him down and made him see the sense in it. What was there to live for? He had only his land.
Well, he would plant in the rain. He would try a crop of cotton, though his other neighbors were planting more tobacco. Cotton had skyrocketed after the war. His land was fertile enough to grow anything under the sun. He blinked. However, the sun was concealing itself this day.
“Giddy up!” Nellie refused to take another step. “Giddy up or I’ll beat your worthless hide and sell your shredded carcass to the tanners!” Nellie heehawed and sat down in the muddied puddle of churned up dirt. “Why, Lord, did you allow Caedmon to die and let this stubborn mule live?”
A lightning bolt streaked across gray clouds and slapped into a nearby tree, cutting it in two with a ghastly sound that made Ben’s ears ring and frightened Nellie so that she took off at a gallop.
“Whooooaa.” Ben held onto the plow reins, jumping and springing across the clumps of earth like a dancing leprechaun, then fell face down into the mud for his troubles. Spewing mud and water from his mouth, he wiped the slimy mixture from his eyes. The mule, with the new plow turned on its side like a tiny sleigh, slid down the hill toward the cabin.
Someone laughed.
Where could that voice be coming from? Getting to his knees, he looked around. The sheets of rain washed down his body, clearing away some of the mud, but it did little help in seeing… a man and mule black as the dirt he’d wallowed in only a moment ago, climbed the hill toward him. The man’s lopsided grin offered Ben a welcome he could not refuse.
“Jacob! ’Tis a fine day for you to be out on a ride.”
“You stubborn Irishman! Trying to plow a furrow in the rain. Why your mule has more sense than you.”
Ben plopped his hat on his head. Water streamed down his face from his sodden brim. “Humpf! I’ll be doing what I will with my land.”
“I came all the way from Tennessee to visit you. Do you have a few minutes to be neighborly?”
“That I do.” His boots sloshed with every step sliding down his hill. His army breeches felt ten pounds heavier with the mud and water he’d accumulated during his ordeal. “You go on into the cabin. I’ll be there shortly. I’ll tend to your mule and be taking care of mine.”
“You haven’t changed, Ben McConnell, not in the five years I’ve known ya.” He leaped down from his mule and helped Ben unharness his mule and then pointed to the cabin. “I’ll tend to the livestock. You need to get out of those wet things and into something warm.”
Ben huffed and eyed Jacob. His confidence had improved, as had his diction. “’Tis a change in positions, I be feelin’. Being at Spirit Wind has improved ya, though I don’t know that I care for your uppity ways.”
Jacob grew serious. “Uppity? When a friend wants to help a friend? Besides, I believe I should be helping a ghost.”
“Ghost?” Ben knew something was wrong with Jacob. Now his words confirmed this. He slapped himself in the chest. “I’m flesh and blood with a little of the blarney still in me. Though wet it may be.”
“Well Maggie thinks you’re died and Will is fixin’ to marry her. But the marriage is postponed until after the sheriff’s sale of Spirit Wind.”
The rain pounded on the barn’s metal roof like a man’s hammering. Ben sat down on a bale of hay, wiping his face with his cavalry issued red bandana. “Saints preserve us. I pray I didn’t hear what I thought I heard.” Grabbing Jacob’s arm, he pushed him forward. “Come, we’ll go inside and do our talkin’.”
“Do you love Maggie or not?” Jacob’s features grew grotesquely sharp in the glow of the hearth.
Ben felt their clothes drying by the fire. Still damp. He picked up a large spoon and stirred his pot of Irish stew, his face feeling hotter from Jacob’s words than the heat of the fire. “You’ve never had Irish stew, have you?”
“Have you heard anything I said, you stubborn Irishman?”
“I’m through with Maggie.” He didn’t lift his head from over his pot of brew. Her father had been right. He could never give Maggie what she was used to. Oh, he’d had hopes that someday he would. He looked about his small cabin. Firm and strong, the weather could not penetrate its walls. Still, it wasn’t the fine place like Spirit Wind. He did not care to be feeling inadequate, didn’t like losing his hopes, but the Irish in him needed to be practical. No, Maggie would be happier with her own kind. “Like should be marrying like.”
Jacob paced back and forth. His bare feet slapping the wooden floor like a Cherokee war drum. “Now, tell me what do you want?”
Ben spooned out the stew into wooden bowls, blowing on his spoonful before sampling his cooking. It went down well, warming the inside of him. He hoped to chase away the chill he felt in his bones by foolishly venturing out on a day like this.
Maggie’s tearstained face came before him amidst the dark steaming brew. That night the Confederates raided the courthouse when he couldn’t help but feel her lips on his once more.
Jacob stopped his pacing. He turned Ben around, peering into his face. “Tell me the truth. Did Maggie’s father come here?”
Ben nodded.
“I thought so. Now it all makes sense.” Jacob began to pace again. “Did you tell her father to tell Maggie you died in Virginia?”
Ben spun around. “Now why would I being doin’ a fool thing like that?” He hung his head. “’Tis providence come to visit me. Perhaps I’m more valuable dead than alive.”
“But why didn’t you go after her? Why didn’t you, Ben?”
“Her father said that she’d be contacting me if she had a change of mind. Said that ‘like should marry like’ and Big Jim wholeheartedly agreed with him. They both agreed against me that I would be doing a grave sin asking Maggie to make a choice, which might be more out of pity than love…” Ben turned, his broken nails diggin’ into the fleshy part of his palms. “I’ll not have any wife of mine pity herself for want of a better life.”
“Big Jim McWilliams. I haven’t seen him in quite a while.” Jacob stirred the stew in his bowl, taking a hesitant bite. “Better than the food at Spirit Wind. …Maggie’s father is sick and Spirit Wind is being auctioned next week for taxes. He might not even have a bed to die in and all because of his southern pride.”
Was Jacob telling the truth? One conscionable act leads to a consequence. Ben walked to the painting of Jesus hanging on the far wall. He was standing in the midst of the sheep, resting on His shepherd’s cane, looking right at Ben. “It takes one wee step down the wrong path to make ya lost.” Yes, we are but sheep that have gone astray. Pray, bring me back upon that narrow path, Jesus.
Standing on the porch of Spirit Wind, Maggie handed out the knapsacks she had prepared for her faithful servants, each filled with corn pone, an apple, yams, a book, and a page from the Bible each individual had chosen.
The cupboards were cleared and the library shelves empty. It was all she had left to give them. “I am proud of you. And I know God has something especially good planned for each and every one of you.”
“Yes’m, Miss Maggie. Thank you, Miss M
aggie.”
She watched them as they walked down the road. Some had placed their knapsacks on a twig they cut from a nearby tree and had rested it upon their shoulders. A ragged bunch of men, women, and children traveling down the winding road to a destiny unknown, much like Ben and his feisty Irishmen had some eight years before.
Her heart leaped within her chest, recalling Ben and his merry eyes, always alert like one of their coon dogs on a new scent. Always ready to kick up his heels to do a jig. What had he told her that first day? Something about the spirit of liberty? Her eyes filled with tears. It was so hard to believe he was dead.
Maggie leaned back against one of the pillars. The auction was just a week away. She had asked Lawyer Peabody for his aid in transferring the large estate into a park. That would please Father, knowing that Spirit Wind would remain intact. She had also proposed the Glenn, the small plot of land separate from Spirit Wind that Father and Mother had first settled on, remain to them. They had the tax money for those forty acres.
If that didn’t work, they could always go to Father’s home place. But Father’s kin hadn’t fared too well either. She looked out at the barren fields, rutted from wagon wheels, soldiers’ horses, and boots. The tattered remains of their cotton and tobacco sheds had been stripped of their livelihood by one night’s celebration when the Yanks rode through on their way to Georgia.
It was so quiet without the slaves, without their singing and merrymaking at all hours. So still without the horses filling their stables with their neighs and the clomping of their hooves on the brick paving stones. She even missed the old rooster waking her up in the mornings.
Will’s boots clumped their way down the hallway, void now of its fine furnishings and echoing like an empty wooden tunnel. They had sold everything for tax money. In his good arm, Little Irene, not so little anymore, clung to his whiskered face. Her blonde curls floated about his face and he blew one dangling curl aside and laughed.
Swept into Destiny Page 26