Kindred Spirits

by Julianne Lee

  The Sergeant snorted. “I don’t doubt that’s been true since this place was first settled.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he shouted orders to his men for them to gather in and mount for the ride to the next property. Shelby closed the door behind them. Once they’d disappeared down the tracks, the tension in her body released and her legs went all watery. Suddenly she was wobbly all over and couldn’t hold herself up. The sense of violation, of her home having been invaded and her belongings destroyed in front of her without the slightest qualm from the soldiers, overwhelmed her with hatred. She leaned against the door and slid to the floor, weeping and cradling her son.

  It took days to put the house back in order again. The tack room in the stable had been emptied of every piece of equipment left behind by Lucas and his brothers, leaving only the wagon and a broken harness. Shelby had to wonder what the Union Army wanted with her sidesaddle. The women repacked boxes and sewed cushions they re-stuffed with straw, horsehair and feathers they gathered from the floors. Not much was said, and Clyde buried the dogs without involving anyone else. Shelby dreaded the letter she would have to write to Lucas about his dogs. There was even a dim hope he wouldn’t receive it, which was a possibility, mail delivery across enemy lines being necessarily haphazard.

  But even as she worked in silence, Shelby thought of the meat the Yankees hadn’t found. The silver still hidden. The cash still crammed inside the wall upstairs and buried in the stable. Her sense of victory was small, but she clung to it.

  That feeling lasted only a couple of months. In late April, she received a letter from Lucas in which he detailed his wounding near Pittsburgh Landing, Tennessee. Shiloh. The word echoed in her mind as if God had spoken it. As she read, the delusion of safety she’d been under, the daydream of having control over events, dissolved. Her heart sank, and she realized she was still subject to history and destiny.

  In the battle, Lucas had suffered a bad grazing from a minie ball that had struck his leading shoulder and furrowed his back as he stood to fire at the enemy. The image arose, of her first sight of his ghostly presence, and the horrible, red slash across his shoulders. Now Lucas wrote the wound had put him out of service for a week, and he was still walking around with his left arm in a sling, but during that time he’d been elected Captain of his unit. Many officers had died on April 6, and he was to replace one of them. For one, brief moment, Shelby wished the wound had been worse so that he would have been sent home. Just a little worse. Enough so his left arm might not heal quite strong enough for him to continue fighting. If only that much history could have been different.

  But it hadn’t been, because there had been nothing to change the history. He’d received the exact wound at the exact moment his destiny had required it. Holding his letter in her hands, his writing solid and real between her fingers, she knew he would receive his death at Chickamauga the same way and there was nothing she could do about it.

  She folded the letter, pressed it to her heart, and rocked in the chair by the fire as she wept.

  Later that week, she pulled on her cloak for a trip to the Campbells’ house to check in on Mary Beth’s parents and see how they were weathering the occupation. Not that she would ever think of them as her own folks. She didn’t even like them well enough to want to be friends. But in a community this small everyone took on a greater importance to each other. All relationships were intensified. Nobody existed in a vacuum here, and the expectation of the community that she carry responsibility for the Campbells eventually became reality for Shelby. Mary Beth was no longer here to be the daughter, so the job fell to herself.

  Besides, nobody else got to pick their parents, either.

  It was a long walk to the mansion, but just a little shorter when Shelby cut across fields and along game trails through the forest. It was a simple matter to ford Drake’s Creek south of the bridge, and the trails approaching the house had been familiar to her for a long time. She no longer wore fancy shoes, and though boots were not for the Brosnahan women she at least had more utilitarian footwear than Mary Beth had worn. She held her skirts off the ground and made good time.

  But as she approached the house, she noticed men here and there, some in Yankee uniform. A large wagon stood at the front in the carriage circle, and things were being loaded onto it. Mother stood on the porch, her face drawn and eyes marked with dark circles. Father came from inside the house to talk to her, looking equally haunted. Shelby hurried on, and up the steps, to ask what was going on.

  Father paled even more, and Shelby had to step aside while two men carried a rolled-up carpet out the door and down the steps to the wagon.

  She said more insistently, “What are they doing?”

  Father shrugged his shoulders and ducked his head, then went inside the house as if to get away from her. But he should know better than that. Of course she turned to follow. Mother reached out for her elbow to stop her.

  “Don’t.”

  “All right, then you tell me what’s up.”

  “Your father has lost the plantation.”

  She blinked, surprised that she’d not expected this. She, with all her knowledge of what the war would do to the local economy, hadn’t given any thought to what William Campbell would lose once his slaves were gone.

  “The field hands ran away. He’s sold the property?”

  A sob escaped, and a tear ran down Mother’s cheek. “Confiscated.” She wiped the tear with trembling hands and looked around at the land that was no longer her home.

  That truly did surprise Shelby. “On what grounds?”

  “Our daughters are both married to Confederate soldiers. They say we have no rights to the property, and have to vacate. Our land has been taken to be sold to someone deemed loyal to the United States. Eleazer Paine and his cohort in Nashville, Johnson, have decreed it.”

  Shelby’s mind flew to gather the bits and shreds of what she remembered about Andrew Johnson. Besides his position as Yankee governor of Tennessee, he was also the current Vice President of the United States. A dim memory of him surfaced. Impeachment. Shortly after the war, during his term as President, Andrew Johnson would be impeached for his nefarious activities here. She guessed this was one of them, but future vindication was of no help to Mary Beth’s parents now. “You’re coming to live with us?” She asked it as a question, but her tone suggested that, of course, they would be coming to the Brosnahan house.

  “No, dear, your sister is taking us in.” Oddly, Shelby knew a pang of rivalry for the sister that wasn’t even hers. Mother continued, “Her house is much larger than yours, and there are fewer people living there just now. You understand.”

  Shelby understood. She felt dissed, nevertheless she nodded. “And the Donelsons are better connected in Washington, and are therefore better equipped to keep you safe from harm.”

  “I can’t see how we could possibly be harmed any more than we have already. This tobacco plantation was all your father worked for his entire life. His father came out from North Carolina with nothing, and in two generations they made this land productive. Now they’re taking it away. They’re going to give it to Yankees who won’t know what to do with it.”

  Shelby’s heart clenched at how much more true that was than this woman could even imagine. But she said, “Susannah will take care of you. And Tom’s mother. You’ll be all right until this mess is over.”

  Mother fixed her with a weary gaze. “It’s all over already.”

  Shelby could only gape at her, with no clue what to say to that. Mother then went into the house, leaving Shelby to look around at the men wandering back and forth over the property, in and out of the house. In the distance, she recognized the figure of Samuel Clarence in conference with a cluster of Yankee officers, far too companionable. Coat drawn back on one side and hand on hip, he had a wide smile. Even from here she could hear his laughter, and she hated him for it. Wary of being seen by him, she entered the house and went looking for the Campbells.
/>   Sometime in May, when the weather was shaking itself out to a fine spring, a single rider in a blue uniform came to the Brosnahan house. There were no dogs to bark now, and Shelby’s heart clenched. As usual the one to put herself forward in these circumstances, she went to the porch to meet him and was quite shocked to find Samuel Clarence Daley wearing the Federalist garb. Unsettling enough to see a local man in a Yankee uniform, let alone that the rank was that of Major.

  “Good grief, Samuel. As if you didn’t have enough people mad at you.” She crossed her arms, not pleased at all to see him, and even less so in that uniform.

  He lifted his hat from his forehead for the briefest moment, then settled it back. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mary Beth. You know I always held you in highest regard.”

  “Right. If Lucas hadn’t beaten the crap out of you that day, I would have done so myself. What do you want here?” She could sense someone at the door behind her, peeking from behind the curtains at the window. Probably Ruth.

  “A polite lady would invite me in and offer me refreshment.”

  “An honorable wife would never dream of inviting any man into her home while her husband was absent. Let alone one as disreputable as yourself.”

  “You’re not alone in the house.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’d like to visit with your husband’s old father. I haven’t had the pleasure of his company in a long time.”

  “You made yourself unwelcome in this house, Samuel. I suggest you turn that horse around and let me see the ass end of it grow smaller in a big hurry.”

  His eyes went wide. “Such a mouth! Lucas surely must not have known what he was getting into when he married you.”

  The double entendre wasn’t lost on her, and she pressed her lips together hard before taking a segue. “What’s with the uniform? Have you turned traitor?”

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Brosnahan, it’s the rest of the county that has turned against their country. I’ve signed up to serve the United States of America, the country in which I was born.”

  He had a point, and she could have kicked herself for forgetting it in her anger. She said nothing by way of reply, and he continued, “I’ve been given the responsibility of running our fair hamlet for the duration of martial law in these counties. Provost Marshall of Hendersonville.”

  A groan rose, and she swallowed it. “Eleazer Paine would be your commander, then.”

  “Indeed, he would.” Samuel’s smile was sickening. General Paine had already established a reputation for harsh dealings with Sumner residents. Everyone knew it didn’t take much to be arrested as a subversive these days, or property confiscated; certainly much less than having three family members in the Confederate Army. The Brosnahans’ only hope had been to lurk under the Yankee radar, but that hope was slipping away at that very moment.

  “Well.” Her mind cast about for something she could say without choking, but without bringing too much wrath on herself. “What is it you would like to talk to Dad Brosnahan about?”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  Her tone sharpened and she shifted her weight impatiently. “May I help you, Samuel?” Patience was about to break. “Is there something you require?”

  He dismounted, and sauntered over. She resisted the strong urge to back up, for it would only have served to allow him to corner her against the wall of the house. She stood her ground, and he stopped on the steps below her. He looked up at her with that smile, and said softly, “There are things I can do for a lonely woman. I have resources. I can get you on the rolls for rations.”

  Anger got the best of her. “You’re offering to give me food the Yankees stole from my neighbors?”

  “I’m offering you a share in the common food supply of the county, which share you would not be entitled to, being a rebel family and all. It is only by the mercy of Governor Johnson you are allowed to live on this land at all.”

  “You mean it is by the low value of this small, uncultivated farm that we’ve been overlooked by the money-grubbing Andrew Johnson.”

  “The United States Army can hardly give succor to its enemies.”

  “And who in this county would qualify for rations in that case? Yourself, and the folks on Free Hill?” About a hundred free blacks lived to the west of Hendersonville, an area that would be called “Free Hill” even into Shelby’s time.

  Samuel’s reaction to being equated with negroes was to flush with anger. How pathetic! In the face of his wrath, she yet stood her ground, and though his eyes flashed and his nostrils flared, his reply was cool. “I’m offering you help.”

  “I don’t need Yankee help.” She wasn’t helping herself against Samuel’s temper, but this was going in a direction she abhorred. It was a struggle to keep her voice even as she continued, “I have no wish other than to be left alone. I wish to get by as best I can, care for my baby, and pray for the safe return of my beloved husband.”

  Samuel’s eyes darkened at the last. “Yeah.” He stepped back to the ground, and gazed out across the railroad tracks. Then he looked up at her again and said, “The door is always open, Mary Beth. Come see me whenever you have a need.” His tone was hard, suggesting he would see to it she would have a need for him to fill soon enough.

  “Good day, Mr. Daley. I mean, Major Daley.”

  He remounted and flicked his cap with one finger. “Good day, Mrs. Brosnahan.” With that, he turned and kicked his horse into a gallop.

  Shelby picked up her skirts and hurried to the well to dip the bucket, then washed her hands thoroughly in it. Even then, she still didn’t feel clean.

  Over the following months, more Yankee soldiers came to the house, expecting and receiving whatever meal was appropriate for the time of their arrival on track patrol. Confederate cavalry units had begun destroying sections of track to disrupt movement of troops and supplies from Louisville, and the Brosnahan house was square on the route the Union forces must take up and down the track. At least twice a week Shelby, Ruth and Martha were required to play hostess to various strange men, some polite and some ugly-tempered. Shelby didn’t know which was worse, for they all made her angry and forced her to smile when she didn’t want to. She figured a good day with a Yankee at the supper table was one in which not much was said by anyone.

  One soldier, though, seemed to defy the situation. He came more often than the others, and was quiet. More polite than the others, and that caught Shelby’s attention. It made her uneasy. He sometimes had a smile for her, and she was confused by that for she wanted to hate these men. They were taking food that should have gone to the family. They had killed her husband’s dogs and stolen their property. But here was a boy, apologetic for the intrusion and polite to her and her family. She wanted to hate him, but he wasn’t playing by the rules.

  She told herself he didn’t have to take the food. He could pay for it. That made him no better than the others. It wasn’t the worst thing ever to be done to her, but it was enough to make him not a friend. So if she couldn’t hate him, at least she could refrain from liking him. Not hating wasn’t the same as liking. Her distance from the enemy was in that way maintained.

  Summer passed. Short rations for the household caused her weight to drop so painfully, she found herself thinking of food all the time. Each missed meal became a madness of craving, for her body had no fat reserves. The worst of it was the weakness in her muscles. A day’s work in the garden wore her out and made her so hungry she could barely stand to be around people. It was Shelby’s second year without air conditioning, and she still wasn’t used to the deadly heat and humidity coupled with long dresses that covered every inch of sweating skin. She carried a paper fan with her nearly everywhere, and used it often, but it helped very little in the stultifying Southern summer. Matthew was up, crawling around now, and he kept his mother and both his aunts busy with an eye out for him. Hot days wore on, and the household carried on under the dark threat of bad news that could come on any day.
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br />   Somewhere around the third week of August, just when the heat had broken with a dim promise of fall, the women were in the truck garden when the sound of men’s raucous singing sent a bolt of terror through them all. The voices were rowdy, and sounded falling-down drunk. Yankees were bad enough, but drunken ones were sure to be dangerous. Ruth and Martha turned to look, both poised to run. Shelby stepped toward the house and wished she were armed. She’d much rather have a gun in hand than try to talk her way through an encounter with a bunch of drunken soldiers. As they neared, she could make out the words they sang, though they fairly shouted and stumbled horribly over them.

  “...rights which, once lost, he can never regain! Gather fast ’neath our flag, for ’tis God’s own degree, that its fold shall still float o’er a land that is free!”

  She tried to guess which side those words indicated, but decided it could be anyone singing that song. At the edge of the garden, she looked out across the field toward the track that led to the house, just as four riders came into the open from the road. She recognized the horse in the lead by its dark roan color. Her heart leapt.

  “It’s Amos.”

  Ruth came hurrying over to look. “Amos?” Her voice shook. “Amos!” She cut out at a run toward the men, almost forgetting to pick up her skirts.

  “Is Gar with him? Oh, my dear God, it’s Gar!” Martha followed, also running. Shelby shouldered her hoe and came after at a lesser pace, for of course Lucas would not be with them. Up ahead, Amos leapt from his horse to take Ruth in his arms and swing her, and Gar greeted Martha with a heartfelt kiss.

  Shelby peered at the other two men, wondering who they were. One was a big, raw-boned man about her age, and the other was very small and skinny, and seemed very young. The little one wore glasses, and glanced around as if unsure what to do next. When Shelby came within reasonable speaking distance, she said, “The stable is over thataway. The Yankees took all our fodder, and there haven’t been horses here since February in any case, so you’ll have to let them pasture. The well’s behind the house, yonder. Once you’ve looked after your horses, come on into the house for some dinner.”