And I had the devil’s own time thinking how to extricate myself. I knew if I slapped Mr. Smead or ordered him away, he would become angry, and I would be done for. I began to shake and tried to stop, for I did not want him to think I was afraid of him. So I murmured, “Oh, I am so confused, Mr. Smead. I don’t know what is happening to me.”
He loosened his grip a little, but I did not pull away. I knew that would infuriate him, and besides, there was no chance of my getting away. The best course, I decided at last, was the one that sickened me most. “You are right, Mr. Smead. I am attracted to you.” He smiled a little, and I slipped one arm from his grip and began to rub it. “You are very strong,” says I giving him a little smile. But, Lizzie, it was like smiling at Beelzebub. “You have hurt me a little.” At that, he let go the other arm, and I rubbed it, as well.
“You should not have resisted,” he says.
“Perhaps not.” I turned away from him and looked out to the river. A steamboat churned the waters, but no one on it could have heard me cry for help or come to my aid. “I love the river. I grew up at Fort Madison, on the Mississippi. Did you ever see a thing so pretty?” I took a few steps toward the bank, and he followed. “I don’t think God intended me to live on some old farm, where I could never see a river. I used to sit on the wharf at home in Fort Madison and watch the boats go by and wish I could ride one all the way to New Orleans.”
Mr. Smead watched me suspiciously.
“Men, you know, can go wherever they like. But we women must stay at home.” My prattling disarmed him a little, although he was watchful, perhaps suspecting a trick. But I knew better than to try one. “Here, let me take your arm,” I says and put my hand on his elbow as I took a few steps back along the riverbank. “We came on the Queen Sabra, me and Mrs. Kittie. I never saw a boat so fine. Do you know her?” I glanced up at him, and he nodded. “Well then, you must ride on her. Wouldn’t it be a grand thing to ride the Queen Sabra all the way to New Orleans? I wonder if she goes that far.”
He shifted his hand so that he was holding my elbow. I winced, and he says, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. You must learn not to go against me.”
“I know.” I smiled and continued my small steps, moving slowly along the bluff.
“I would take you to New Orleans, if you say so.”
“Oh, Mr. Smead, that would be too dangerous. Why, the Rebs might blow up the boat—or the Yankees,” I add. “Either way, we would be in great danger.”
“Memphis, then. I’ll take you to Memphis,” he says. I laughed, and a shadow passed over his face. “I said I would take you to Memphis.”
“That is a very serious proposition.”
“I could make you go, you know.”
“Yes, you could, if you wanted to. Do you?” He did not answer, and I says, “I have never felt about any man the way I do about you, Mr. Smead, although I am bold to say so.” That was the truth, although my feelings for him were not what he believed them to be. “If I understand what you are asking, then I need a little time.”
He dropped my arm and took my hands between his. “Alice, dear, I am crazy for you, and I think if you do not go willingly, I will take you by force. We can leave today, before you change your mind.” Mr. Smead is an intelligent man, and you might wonder, Lizzie, why he was taken in by such a silly ruse. I have concluded that my response surprised him so much that he did not give it serious analysis.
“But there are things to be done.” I shrugged. “Clothes—”
“I have money. I’ll buy anything you need in Memphis.”
I gathered all my powers of flirtation, which, as you know, are considerable, and says, “Why, Mr. Smead. There are no fine clothes to be had in Memphis. And I would not consider arriving there in this horrid outfit. I would shame you. You cannot ask that of me.”
All the while we had been talking, I had led him back along the riverbank, just as a mother bird lures a cat away from her nest. I do not think he realized we had gone so far until, in the distance, we spotted Mrs. Kittie, one hand shading her eyes and the other waving. “Yoo-hoo,” she calls.
“Don’t say a word to her, Mr. Smead. Promise me you won’t. I shall have to think of something.” Then I rushed to join her.
“Now, where have you got to?” Mrs. Kittie asks with a wink.
“On a lovely walk,” I says. Then I whisper, “But Mrs. Kittie, the heat has got to you. It could cause a stroke. I must take you back.” She started to object, but I whisper, “Your face has broke out in red spots like measles. It does not look good.” The appeal to her vanity worked, and in a moment, we were in the carriage. Although it made my skin crawl, I sat next to Mr. Smead and only smiled when he put his hand on mine. He deposited me and Mrs. Kittie and said he would call for me in a hour.
“Well, what of your walk?” Mrs. Kittie asks the moment we got to our rooms.
“Mrs. Kittie, we must go home at once.”
She picked up a mirror and examined her face. “It is not so bad as you said, not bad at all. Did Mr. Smead make improper advances? You must tell me.”
She continued to examine herself in the mirror, pretending to make idle chat, but I knew her for a bad old gossip who delights in scandal, and I dared not tell her what had transpired. “Mr. Smead is a copperhead, and I am the wife of a Union soldier.”
“Oh, do be quiet.”
“I want nothing to do with him.”
“I should not mind if such a man paid attention to me, but suit yourself. If you don’t care for his company, tell him as much.”
“He will not be told.”
Mrs. Kittie set down at her mirror and turned so that I could loosen her corset strings. “Myself, I don’t care to leave just yet. But suit yourself. Go by yourself.” She waved her hand as if dismissing me.
I let go of the strings, and her flesh escaped from the corset like air from a balloon.
Well, Lizzie, I would have gone home alone, but that dashed Mrs. Kittie refused to pay me the fifty dollars she had promised me. The bargain we had made was that I would accompany her to Hannibal, stay the week, then return home with her, she said. I was much put out with her, but what could I do, as she held the purse strings? “Then I shall wait the week out,” I says, “in this room.”
And that was the course I set for myself. I did not know or care if Mrs. Kittie saw Mr. Smead or what she told him. She refused to speak to me and thought to starve me out, for she would not order meals sent to me. But she forgot about the hoard of sweets she brought back from tea each afternoon, and I ate cakes for three days. I was never so sick of a place in my life as I was of Hannibal. Finally, Mrs. Kittie came into my room to say Mr. Smead had boarded the fast packet James Rice for Memphis, and as proof, she pointed to the vessel as it paddled downriver. But it was a lie, and the moment I emerged from the hotel, Mr. Smead was waiting for me. Mrs. Kittie smirked as she watched us from a distance.
Right close did I come to turning my back, but he grabbed my arm and says, “You have tricked me.”
“Tricked you? Now how is that, Mr. Smead? It was me who was tricked into believing you a gentleman, when you are a scoundrel.” I snatched my arm away and says, “If you touch me again, I’ll call for assistance.”
He glared at me but did not reach for my arm. “You try my patience.”
I decided then to put an end to what was between us, even if it meant the end of my friendship with Nealie. So I faced him, and says, “I don’t doubt that my foolishness last summer led you to believe I cared for you. I only wanted a good time, but I shamed myself, and I beg your pardon for leading you on. The truth is plain: I do not care for you now, and I do not want to see you ever again. If our paths cross in the future, I will not recognize you and hope you will not greet me. Mr. Smead, as a gentleman, you must respect my wishes.”
Believing I had bettered him, I turned my back on him and walked past Mrs. Kittie without recognizing her, either, then went into my room, closing the door.
What Mrs. Kittie
did, I neither know nor care. She returned late in the afternoon, entering my room without knocking.
“We are leaving. We take passage on the Claycomb. She is a fat, ugly old tub that ought to be scuttled, but it is the next to leave, so we have no choice.” I was about to thank her for discommoding herself, when she collapsed onto a chair and put her hand to her brow. She had gone distracted, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Mr. Howard is a fake. I have been humbugged,” she cries.
So it was the end of her affair and not my pleading that sent us home. Still, I could not help but be sorry for the foolish old woman, and I put my arms around her. “We have had a lovely trip and will arrive home each with a bonnet,” I says.
She never told me what ended her affair with Mr. Howard, never spoke his name again. But as the despicable and lardy old Claycomb lurched along, blowing steam and making other disquieting noises, she says, “Let us have a bargain not to mention meeting any gentlemen in Hannibal. I will not say Mr. Smead’s name if you will not talk of Mr. Howard. I propose to say I went there on business.”
So, Lizzie, except for you, I have told no one the particulars of the trip and hope Mrs. Kittie will keep her mouth shut, too. I am confident I will have no further encounter with Mr. Samuel Smead, for this time, I made myself quite clear.
This letter has taken three nights to write. I gave the yellow bonnet to Annie, who is much taken with it. I am enclosing the ring Mr. Smead gave me, as I think it may be valuable after all. I ought to throw it away, but what’s the good of that? Keep the money or give it to the Sanitary Commission. I don’t want it.
Believe me, I remain your contrite, loving sister,
Alice Keeler Bullock
7
Spiderweb
A quilter saved every bit of fabric left over from making clothing and bedding. When she went to piecing, then, she found ready supplies in her scrap bag. Quilters also traded scraps with one another. A quilt became a kind of scrapbook, for as she worked, a quilter remembered the original use of the fabric—a wedding gown, a baby frock, the dress of a cherished friend. Fabric was never wasted. An inch-square block might be carefully pieced of two or three tiny scraps of the same material. When the only remnants left in her scrap bag were too small to be cut into shapes, a quilter made a String or Scrap quilt, sewing small, uneven pieces together into a Strip, Kaleidoscope, or Cobweb quilt.
June 17, 1864
Dear Sister Elizabeth,
What do you think Mr. Samuel Smead would say if he found out his ring paid your rent for three months? Oh cow! I would like to tell that to Mr. Jack Ass, but I would not dare, even if I saw him again. I think I will not, however. There has been no sign of him since I got home, and I think my words are the reason. Of course, I would never let Nealie know I saw him in Hannibal (and think, after the outcome, that he would not mention it, either). When I saw her at quilting, I inquired about things at home. She replied only that they were quiet, which I hope to mean that Mr. Samuel Smead may not have returned. In that case, I will have to wait and see if my words had the desired effect.
The money from the ring I sent is not a loan; I do not want it back. The ring was never mine, and I know now it was stole, plain and simple. I would return it if I knew the true owner, but I do not, so what better use than that you shall pay your rent with it. Aren’t you glad I did not toss it to the pigs?
You must not worry about me, Lizzie. I have no one else to share my feelings with, so I put them all into my letters to you, which is not fair. But I need to confide in someone, and oh, Lizzie, I am so grateful for you. What would I do if I had no sister to tell my troubles to? Little wonder with my long list of complaints you think me ill-used and ill-content, but the truth is, things here are as good as could be expected. They certainly could be worse: I could have been born a Secesh girl.
Besides, I count many blessings: Charlie is safe, although he has been in a skirmish or two, and the news is they are marching farther south, possibly to Georgia. We get along finely on Bramble Farm. It is a beautiful summer, and while it is hot enough to roast an egg in the sun, our thick log house surrounded by woods is as cool as can be. Our crops do well. And Mother Bullock seems better, although she moves like real estate these days. I came in from hoeing one afternoon and found her asleep under a tree, with no sign of supper under way. So instead of waking her, I did chores, then went inside and fixed a meal of buttermilk and cold corn bread, and we dined beneath the tree. Mother Bullock was wore out because she had attacked the old flower garden and will make it bloom again, she says. I did not know it was there until a few weeks since. Her eyes were bright when she talked about how, as boys, Charlie and Jo helped her with the planting and the weeding. But Mr. Bullock did not like flowers much—I think men do not understand a woman’s need for them—and as soon as the boys were of an age to help, he set them to farming. She never talks about Mr. Bullock, who died some years back. Charlie has said he was a hard man, who used Mother Bullock bad.
“Charlie’s favorite flowers were always the yellow ones—buttercups, brown-eyed Susans, dandelions, hollyhocks the color of lemons,” she says to me.
“Why, that must be why I like Charlie so. Yellow is my favorite color, too.”
“It must be the reason we are having corn bread for supper,” she says. Since Mother Bullock makes few jokes, I waited for her to smile before I laughed. Now she works a little each day in the flower garden. I am glad for it, but it seems an odd thing, for she has always been so practical. Her hands have never left undone any work they could do, but now she spends her time amongst the flowers. Tending flowers pleasures her the way quilting does me.
Annie and Joybell moved into the house with us three days ago. It was a surprise because they liked the little shack hugely. The problem was that Annie left Joybell there when it was too hot for her in the fields. The little girl was trusted not to stray far, and I never saw such a person, girl or woman, for sense of direction. I think it is because she does not go distracted by seeing things. So there was no worry she would wander away. But on the day they moved here, Annie came home, to find two rattlesnakes sunning themselves on the doorstep. Joybell could have stepped right on them! I shudder to think of that little blind girl, all alone, snakes crawling over her. Annie did not tell her, but Joybell knew something was wrong, because she has been agitated ever since. Now she and Mother Bullock keep each other company during the day, so both benefit, and Annie is company for me in the evenings. She helped me with my Kitty Corner quilt. The top is done, but I do not care to quilt it and have put it away. Last night, me and Annie started piecing a Spiderweb for Joybell. It will be like a String quilt and will use up all the tiny scraps.
“I would fancy a piece of that new blue of yourn for it. I wouldn’t ask for myself, but as it’s for Joybell, would you spare it? I never saw that shade before,” Annie says.
I was glad to give her the Prussian blue, but I wondered why she would waste such a pretty piece of fabric in a quilt for a blind girl. “How will she know it’s there?” I asks.
“I’ll know.”
“Well then, take it all, and use it for setting squares, too,” I says. I was that tickled at her remark, and besides, you know how looking at each piece of fabric in a quilt reminds you of some occasion—the remnant Grandma gave me that was brought from Connecticut or the piece left from the shirt that Charlie wore when he marched off to war. That’s one of the joys of quilting, reliving those old times just by looking at a tiny piece of fabric. Well, the blue reminds me of Hannibal, and that is an old time I’d rather forget.
I told Annie we would embroider our names and Joybell’s on the quilt in turkey red, so that she could feel of them and remember us.
Lizzie, I work this farm harder than ever I did, but I don’t mind it now. I expect this to be a good summer, so, like I said at the outset, don’t worry about me. I am in first-rate spirits.
So much from your sister,
Alice
July 5, 1864
Dear Lizzie,
It being the Fourth of July yesterday and us being the family of a Yankee soldier, we put aside the farm work for the day and went to Slatyfork to celebrate—me, Mother Bullock, Annie, and Joybell. I hadn’t seen so many people in one place since Hannibal, what with the parade and the band concert. There were windy prayers, and speeches by a veteran of the 1812 war and by boys who have been mustered out of this war. One had both legs shot off. Oh Lordy, if that’s the only way Charlie can come home, it’s all right, I guess, but I surely hope he doesn’t get maimed that way. I wore that old red-white-and blue-ribboned hat, having perked it up by boiling its faded ribbons with red flannel to make them cherry red, and Annie tied on the yellow one. I hoped Mrs. Kittie wouldn’t see her in it. Then I hoped she would, and she did.
“It ain’t her color, but the cut of the bonnet looks pert on her,” Mrs. Kittie says.
“Annie doesn’t have any other hat, just a sunbonnet. I thought she should have something nice,” I explain.
“I’m sure I don’t mind if you gave away my present. It means nothing to me.” Mrs. Kittie was sweating heavily in the heat and swirled the air in front of her face with a paper fan with pictures of Chinamen on it. Then she leaned close to me and says, “I have heard from Mr. Howard.” She cocked her head and raised one eyebrow, fanning herself harder than ever.
I did not want to hear about Mr. Howard and reminded her we had agreed not to talk about two particular gentlemen.
“No, sis. You agreed not to talk about Mr. Howard, and I agreed not to talk about Mr. Samuel Smead. I have kept my word and haven’t spoken of Mr. Smead to a soul, but Mr. Howard is a fit subject for me to talk about if I choose to.”
Alice's Tulips: A Novel Page 14