The Abolitionist's Daughter

by Diane C. McPhail

  “Well, for the moment, it also seems distant,” said Mason. “It’s all happening a hell of a ways from us to be so absolutely about us. Like a bad dream come real somehow. Like you want to just wake up from it. Of course I feel that way about a lot that goes on right here in town. Good folks and wild folks all drawn to frontier promise. Including me, I reckon.”

  “You mighty quiet, Michael,” Asa said, probably the only person to call Lambert by his given name.

  “I’m just listening.”

  “You take Mama’s chair to the widow?”

  “I did.”

  “She like it? All that work you put in it?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not doing well, I gather. Just gave it to Adeline.”

  “Don’t know anyone who could do well after such violence as that,” said Mason. “How was Adeline?”

  “Seemed sturdy enough; holding up, I reckon. Asked about you, Mason.”

  Asa maneuvered a toothpick between his back teeth. He studied both men without speaking and grinned. Lambert shook his head, slapped the tabletop, and rose.

  “I’m turning in,” he said. “Asa, make sure your patient there gets some sleep.”

  * * *

  The always irregular post arrived. Adeline did not recognize the slave who brought the letter to Emily, nor the handwriting. But she recognized the fear and the sick blanching of Emily’s face at the sight of the soiled envelope. Adeline bent to take the baby and left Emily, the letter trembling in her fingers.

  Vicksburg

  January 3, 1862

  Sister,

  I am enlisted in the Confederate Army, fortunately stationed near Vicksburg, where I reckon myself to be safe, though we move at inconsistent command. We are well positioned and our forces set at all costs to defend control of the Mississippi River, and we shall most certainly not fail. Vicksburg is unconquerable.

  The weather is exceedingly cold and miserable. I have never known our South to be so wretched. As I departed in more haste than convenient, having avenged our father’s death and at the risk of my life, my two heaviest coats must be posted at once. Use the address on the envelope. The rains have been terrible and the sloughs are now frozen over, so that movement of the troops is treacherous both from the ice itself and from its breakage.

  I must reconfirm to you that it is I who am primary heir to our father’s land and estate. Do not take my absence as your personal opportunity to misuse my property nor to misadminister it. It is your duty to obey my wishes, and you will answer to me for full responsibility of my property’s care.

  See that you do not fail.

  Jeremiah Matthews

  Proprietor

  Emily’s breath came short and fast. The letter lay precariously on her lap as her fingers gripped the arms of the chair. Jeremiah, the brother for whom her mother had died. A boy and now a man for whom no one should die. Jeremiah, who had taunted her all his life, made her wretched with his slights and outright insults, so unlike sweet Will. Jeremiah, still alive, and the brother she had loved so dearly gone, along with half her life. Now he goaded her from afar and insulted their father by joining Confederate forces, fighting against their father’s undying allegiance to the Union. Bragging to her that he had avenged their father’s death with this violence and tragedy and injustice. And now to pose himself in their father’s place? His treachery is complete, she thought, and has no limits. Her body filled with a wounded hatred she made no attempt to abate.

  Emily ripped the letter in half. She tapped the pieces against her fingers, then tossed them into the fire. The paper caught, the torn edges charring, flaming. Fragments of the blazing words lifted in the draft and floated, directionless, onto the hearth. Emily kicked at them with the side of her foot, then stamped at those remaining, the sole of her boot hard against the brick. When her breathing had slowed, Emily went to Ginny with instructions for Benjamin regarding coats and blankets and provisions. And then she went to fetch her baby from Adeline.

  * * *

  A feeble January sun labored to lift the heavy fog, but failed to burn it off. The week had come and gone, and with it a tense continuation of life. It was Monday. The fire under the wash pot had reduced to embers, as Ginny slipped clothespins over the last of the sheets, diapers, and Emily’s pads, each discreetly covered by a diaper. They would all smell of smoke, she thought. Ginny retrieved the turning stick and propped it against the house. She ran her hands down the smooth wetness of a petticoat as she turned to the kitchen chores and dinner cooking. She was alarmed to find Adeline distraught and pacing. Ain’t like her, Ginny thought. Then she saw the knife from under the seat of the wagon. Adeline’s hands curled and uncurled around it, blood spreading from the dark blade across her roughened skin.

  “Here, Miss Adeline.” Ginny held out her hand. “You give that to me.”

  “What on God’s earth was he doing with it?” Adeline rubbed at her forehead with the back of her bleeding hand, the knife dangling loosely from her curled fingers. “He just cut some damned old thing and handed it off to me like it was nothing. Like it was nothing at all. How in God’s name could he do that?”

  Ginny understood immediately that Adeline meant Thomas, who must have pulled the knife from the wagon seat, unaware, uncaring, or both.

  “I have to be shed of this thing, Ginny.” Adeline’s eyes pleaded, her face distorted with grief, but she continued to grip the knife.

  “I got it, Miss Adeline.”

  Ginny took hold of the knife with one hand. With the other, she tucked a few graying hairs from Adeline’s face. Adeline whirled, the knife clattering to the floor. She kicked at it and it spun away, its heavy handle leading. Ginny stood very still.

  “Bury that thing, Ginny.” Adeline grasped at the table for balance. “Take it somewhere I won’t ever come near. Somewhere I won’t ever know. Just get it gone.”

  The knife was old and worn, sharpened untold times, with a nick in the blade near the handle. Ginny felt the burden, the shocking heft of it. She walked into the yard past the laundry, holding the weight of what Mr. Thomas had done. Out past the lower field, deep in a grove of long pines adjacent to an ancient oak, Ginny dug into a dense bed of moss. The smell of damp earth rose around her fingers. She placed the knife in the depression, stood back, evaluating, then bent and retrieved it. Deeper, then deeper, Ginny dug. Could be setting a fencepost, she thought. Blade down, she thrust the knife into the ground. Dirt and moss replaced, Ginny studied the spot. She raised her eyes to the surrounding trees and the sky beyond, visible now that the fog had finally burned off. A bit of light shone through the trees. Ginny laid a flat rock over the disturbed earth, wiped her hands, and returned to her chores, as Adeline had to hers.

  * * *

  The days passed. The children slept, woke, ate. Soiled clothes got washed and dried and soiled again. Ginny observed a cycle of precarious tolerance set in, held together on the spare framework of habitual civility. Moments of temporary delight broke through the darkness that encompassed Adeline: Ginny watched her respond to Rosa Claire’s laughter, saw Adeline’s disconnection lift as she caught a kicking baby foot in the palm of her hand, recognized the blending of connection and loss as Adeline handed the baby back into his mother’s arms. She saw how the touch of these women’s hands in that exchange only separated them more. A matter of time, Ginny thought. And it ain’t long coming.

  * * *

  Mason, recovered well enough to ride, brought the second letter. Its envelope was muddy and the address smeared, but legible. The weather was bleak.

  “You know there’s nothing I can do,” he said. Adeline watched as he put it in her hand and turned back into the wind, his collar pulled high over his uncovered head.

  The spindled rocker creaked slightly where Emily sat by the window, staring into the gray world as she nursed the baby. On the floor Rosa Claire devised a game of hide-and-seek, flipping the edge of her mother’s skirt back and forth over her head. When Adeline entered, the little girl s
cooted under the skirts, waiting to be found, but Adeline only handed the envelope to Emily and left the room. Rosa Claire climbed out of her disappointment and hid herself behind the curtain.

  Lonso’s hand went limp against Emily’s breast. She managed the letter into her pocket and disengaged her damp nipple. The baby’s lips sucked at themselves in his sleep. Emily rose and propped him between the pillows on the bed. With her back to Rosa Claire, she said, “Please don’t muss the curtains.”

  The child pouted to come out of her hiding place, but neither did she want to stay. She wanted to give that baby back to somebody. Lonso should be her name. Maybe Mama had heard it wrong. Her mother shooed her off to find Ginny. The child dragged her feet down the hall toward the light of the parlor fire, where Auntie Gin would smile at her. She glanced back to see her mother leaning against the wall with her hand in her pocket.

  The mud on the envelope left grit on Emily’s fingers. Alone now, she sat down in the rocker and dangled the letter at her side. Her fingers shook and she was tempted to toss it in the fire, a gesture of riddance to this brother who had forever been hateful. But he was her brother.

  Near Port Gibson

  January 18, 1862

  Sister,

  Again I take up my pen because your assistance is critical. My slave Ballard has succumbed to the fever, which is rampant in the camp.

  Consequently I lack the care of a man from home and suffer exhaustingly from it. Being that I remain primary heir to Father’s estate, as I have reminded you already, and continue to have such rights thereof, I ask, even though I might demand, for you to send me a new man from among the slaves. I have no particular preference which among the inventory, other than that he be young, of reliable character, and strong. The food supply is abominable. There is much rot and mold, and the cold is excessive. One of my coats that just arrived has already been commandeered. Therefore, send a blanket as well. Or two. Whatever the man can handle. I need a ham and other such nonperishable foodstuff as he can carry, wrapped under careful concealment in clothing and the blankets. You will need to equip him with rations for a minimum of three days, a set of shirts and new underclothing from my goods, and papers of permission for him to travel. You will find a seal for the documents in Father’s library.

  I am encamped a few miles to the east of the town and whatever buck you send will have no difficulty locating me, although he will require the utmost care in travel and must beware of inquiries as he nears our embattled position so as not to jeopardize my provisions.

  Jeremiah Matthews

  Proprietor

  CHAPTER 24

  As the days dragged past, Emily and Adeline had little to say to one another, each in her own isolation, with nothing to speak of beyond the artificial. One evening, Emily noticed a hole in Rosa Claire’s sock. Her darning stitches had not improved. She jabbed at the needle until at last she wadded the sock and threw it into the fire. The time had come to leave.

  Their parting was strained: Emily and Adeline left unspoken the web of causes and blame. Emily loaded her children and traveled home to the vacancy of her life.

  As the weeks passed and winter surrendered its cold, she caught her reflection one afternoon in the window. She took a deep breath. The habit of life. She sat down by the window, fingering the drape and blinking at the light. The world was there. It would continue to be there, with or without her. If she were to live, it must be beyond the habitual.

  Half an hour passed before she went to find Ginny in the library.

  “I am going to town,” she said. “Tell Lucian to hitch the buggy.”

  Ginny busied herself with the feather duster as if she had not heard.

  “Did you hear me?” Emily said.

  “You ain’t got no business out there by yourself,” Ginny said at last. “There’s a war on, even if it ain’t hereabouts. They’s gangs roaming the country, hunting runaways and such. It ain’t like it used to be, case you ain’t noticed. And I guess you ain’t had call to notice.”

  “Ginny, you talk to me as if I were your child,” Emily said.

  “Just about, Miss Emily. Especially if you take leave of your senses.”

  “I am going, Ginny. We are fortunate enough to have a warm spell and I cannot remain closed in this house the rest of my life. You are the very one who told me I must choose to live. The longer I put it off, the more difficult it becomes.”

  Tapping the feather duster against her apron, Ginny studied her mistress.

  “You sure about this? You ain’t got to do it this way.” Ginny took a book from the table and slipped it into the shelves.

  “I’m sure, Ginny,” Emily said. She took the duster from Ginny and laid it on the table where the book had been. “Now give me a list: thread, black silk yardage, if it’s to be had, what else? And how much silk? Oh, and buttons, or were you able to find some in the trunk among Mama’s things?”

  “I found them. All you need is yardage and thread. And some muslin for lining. For sure, you do need a spare black dress. I can make another set of cuffs and a collar for that one you wearing. Spruce it up. But that ain’t lasting a year.” Ginny untied her apron. “I’m going with you. Don’t be looking like that. You can drive if you want.”

  The creak of the buggy and the jangling traces soothed Emily’s anxiety as they rode, the familiar sounds lulling her into the ride itself and away from its destination. Beside her, Ginny hummed. Overhead, pale-leafed trees interlaced along the drive. Near the edge of the farm, several fence posts tilted, tugging each other toward the ground. One brings down the other, Emily thought. Repairs to make note of. Cows grazed in the pasture, its green dotted with yellow dandelion, the bucolic scene as indifferent to the war as to her pain.

  Along the way, men and women bent over their work in the fields, their color blending into the new, plowed earth. A blush of early leaves—green, pale yellow, and melon—softened the treetops along the boundary lines. Houses appeared, set close, like friends stopped on an outing to gossip. On the wide porch of a faded white house, a woman knitted from a ball of purple yarn, a small dog at her feet. As the buggy neared, the dog commenced yapping. The woman looked up, gathered her work, and disappeared into the house, calling the dog. Farther along, a thin black woman in yellow calico tidied a front walk. She leaned on her broom and peered over the gate. A male slave left off trimming a hedge and lounged beside her, staring. From porches and gardens, as the buggy passed, a rolling hush accentuated the rasp of the wheels and trailed the two women into the town and along the boardwalks, where townspeople stopped to stare or darted into storefronts.

  Though her hands trembled, Emily nodded at the spectators. She stopped the buggy in front of Chaney’s Mercantile and stepped down. Ginny followed.

  In the dim interior of the store, a handful of women, two of whom Emily recognized from church, broke off their transactions and disappeared. A young woman dropped a handful of Confederate dollars on the counter and left without her change. The blacksmith’s wife whispered hasty instructions for her purchase to be charged and was gone. Within minutes, Emily found herself the sole customer. Mrs. Chaney vanished behind the brown plaid curtain at the rear of the store, while Chaney himself cut nine yards of black silk serge and four of cotton bodice lining. Ginny reminded Emily of a packet of needles and three spools of thread, cotton in the absence of silk. Chaney took the fifty-dollar Confederate bill from Emily, returning her four. When she thanked him by name, he raised his eyes and nodded.

  “I’m real sorry, Mrs. Slate,” he said. She returned the nod.

  All three turned as the bell on the door tinkled and a man’s footsteps echoed across the wooden floor.

  “Nice day,” Lambert said. “We can use an early spring.” He removed his hat and nodded to Emily. “Mrs. Slate. Ginny.”

  “How you do, Mr. Lambert,” Ginny said, a gentle smile playing across her narrow face.

  “I’m well, thank you, especially this nice day.” He turned to Chaney. “Needing so
me shirt buttons, please, sir. Howdy, Mrs. Chaney.” He nodded toward a crack in the plaid curtain, which promptly fell closed. “Asa is a hard man on buttons. If they were seeds, we’d have us an orchard of button trees by now.” He laid some coins on the counter and Chaney produced a card of buttons. “You ladies leaving? I’ll walk you out, if you don’t mind the company.”

  Emily’s uncertainty was apparent, but she felt immense gratitude as Lambert took her arm and escorted her toward the door. He assisted her into the buggy and handed up the reins. As Emily pulled away, Ginny was aware of him standing alone in the empty street.

  “Funny thing to think of two old bachelors sewing lost buttons back on their shirts,” Emily said as they turned the corner. “I never thought about such a thing.”

  “Reckon somebody got to do it.” Ginny had seen Mr. Lambert about to mount his horse as they entered the town. She knew he had seen the townspeople scatter. She had watched him hesitate and loop the horse’s reins at the post again. “Reckon a man who sews on his brother’s buttons might be a handy kind of man to have around.”

  As she turned off the main street, Emily regarded the empty boardwalks. She had not considered how any one of these townsmen might have been in the mob that night. And if not, they would know who had been. An unknown number of these men had seen Hammond shot and her husband hanged. They knew the name of the man who had put the noose around Charles’s neck: a name she was more and more sure was Jeremiah.

  * * *

  “Mama?”

  Adeline heard the door and sighed. Why, she thought. Why? She lifted her soapy hands from the dishpan and dried them on her apron. Adeline was keenly aware of the click of Belinda’s boots in the hall. She was lugging a picnic basket covered with a hemstitched linen napkin. Adeline shook her head, the motion almost imperceptible. She picked up a frayed tablecloth and followed her daughter outside, spread the cloth on the ground under the arching branches of a nearby pecan. Belinda’s attempts to help simply got in the way.