Shattered Nation

by Jeffrey Brooks

  “You don’t?”

  Turnbow waited a moment before continuing. “They found me on the street in front of a Presbyterian church in Baltimore. No one had a clue who my mother was, much less my father. I was raised in the orphanage.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “No reason to be. I have no reason to complain. After all, look what I have made myself into, without any help from parents or family. I built every inch of my fortune, bit by bit. I started out as a poor clerk in a Baltimore merchant house, but now I am one of the richest men in all the South.” He sipped his whiskey and laughed slightly. “Of course, all that might be lost if the Yankees prevail.”

  “And you were raised in the Presbyterian Church, I assume?”

  “Yes. This created problems for my wife’s family, as Poles are more Catholic than the Pope. We eventually came to a compromise, though. She adopted my religion and I adopted her culture. We are a family of Polish Presbyterians, you see. Perhaps the only such family in the world!” He laughed at his own joke, or perhaps the absurdity of it.

  At that moment, a somewhat stout woman about Robert’s age appeared in the doorway. Her white hair was pulled up tight and short and she eyed McFadden warily.

  “This is the sergeant you told me about?” she asked Robert, with an odd rustling accent that McFadden assumed was Polish.

  “Indeed, it is the man who saved the lives of your husband and daughter. May I present Sergeant James McFadden. And Sergeant McFadden, this is my wife, Teresa.”

  “How do you do, ma’am?” McFadden said, bowing his head respectfully.

  She looked him up and down as though she were inspecting a prize horse. The expression on her face was that of a woman who was far from impressed.

  She grunted. “I do well, sergeant. I welcome you to my home.”

  “I am much obliged to you, ma’am.”

  “It’s my husband to whom you are obliged, sergeant. He was the one who invited you. Now, let’s move to the dining room.”

  McFadden and Turnbow set down their glasses and followed her through the door into the dining room. The table was set with elegant dishes, but McFadden noticed that some of the china cups were slightly chipped. He glanced about, looking for Annie but seeing no sign of her.

  “Annie is not quite ready,” Mr. Turnbow said, sensing McFadden’s confusion. “I believe she’ll join us in a few minutes.”

  “Perhaps she’d have been ready sooner if you’d invited a proper officer to dine with us, rather than a sergeant.”

  “Teresa!” Turnbow snapped. “We agreed that you would be polite this evening.”

  Teresa’s face curled into a girlish scowl, making it abundantly clear that she felt she owed McFadden nothing. Turnbow turned toward McFadden.

  “I apologize for my wife’s behavior, sergeant. She can be rather spritely.”

  McFadden nodded. He considered the dismissive attitude of Mrs. Turnbow extremely rude rather than spritely, but was not about to say so.

  “And whose fault is it that I can no longer entertain proper guests in my own home?” Mrs. Turnbow asked. “Whose fault is it that we have been able to hear the booming of cannon for the last month?”

  “The Yankees, ma’am?” McFadden offered. It seemed the most obvious answer.

  She gave a dismissive snort, causing Robert to frown in mild dismay.

  “Please calm yourself, dear,” he said gently. “Can we not try to have an enjoyable evening?”

  “How can we have an enjoyable evening when the Yankees are just a few miles from my own dining room, with our army too frightened to stand and fight?”

  McFadden shifted uncomfortably as he took his seat. He and his comrades were no cowards and he deeply resented the implication that they were. He thought of all the men he had known in the 7th Texas who were now lying in graves across northern Georgia.

  Turnbow seemed about to respond to his wife when Annie suddenly appeared in the doorway. He had not forgotten how beautiful she had been when he had first seen her on the north bank of the Chattahoochee River, yet he was still taken aback. She was wearing a blue dress that would likely have been laughed at before the war, but was a model of elegance in the third year of the conflict.

  Annie’s father rose to his feet, and McFadden instinctively followed suit. She took her place at the table, directly across from him, and everyone sat down.

  “Good evening, Miss Turnbow,” McFadden offered.

  “Good evening, Sergeant. It is good to see you again. I am glad you came.”

  “Well, I expect the dinner I shall have here will be considerably better than I would have had in my regiment’s camp.”

  “I do hope so,” Robert said. “The war has been unkind to everyone, but it is still possible to acquire decent food in Atlanta if one has the means and knows where to go. But I hope you will accept a meal that is somewhat less than extravagant. Our fare tonight will be a glazed ham, some sweet potatoes, and I believe some green beans. My woman Mattie is a fine cook, as you shall soon see.”

  McFadden’s mouth watered. Turnbow might disdain such food as shoddy, but McFadden had not eaten such a meal in years. Two slaves, a man and a woman, brought in a salad dish and laid the plates on the table. He assumed the woman was the aforementioned Mattie.

  “Sergeant McFadden’s father was a minister,” Mr. Turnbow said. “Perhaps he would like to say the blessing?”

  Annie and her mother both glanced at him. McFadden felt distinctively uneasy. He hadn’t spoken to God since the day he returned to the family farm to find it a burned ruin containing the corpses of his parents and sisters. He tried to think of something to say, but neither his mind nor his heart could find any words. An anguished and uncomfortable minute passed.

  “I’ll say it, father,” Annie offered.

  Annie’s prayer was warm and concise, but McFadden scarcely heard a word of it. He was ashamed at himself for having been unable to say anything and was certain that he had committed an unforgivable social blunder. He tried to imagine how his father might have reacted had a person come to dinner at their home on the Texas frontier and declined to say the blessing.

  Conversation was limited during the eating of the salad. When those awkward minutes were over, the two house slaves withdrew the salad plates and placed dishes of ham and sweet potatoes in front of everyone.

  “Thank you,” McFadden said absent-mindedly to Mattie as she served him.

  Her eyes widened in surprise, as the faces of the Turnbows betrayed some confusion.

  “It is not customary to thank slaves,” Mrs. Turnbow said.

  “I am sorry,” McFadden replied. “I was trying to be polite.”

  “There is no need,” she said. “Mattie is a slave.”

  “Perhaps there are different customs on the Texas frontier,” Annie observed to her mother.

  “Forgive me, ma’am,” McFadden said. “My family did not own slaves.”

  “Ah. Poor, were they?”

  “My family was not rich, no. But there are few slaves on the Texas frontier even among the well-to-do. Most of the plantations are in the eastern part of the state.” He paused for a moment, weighing whether or not he should say what he wanted to say. “In any event, my mother found the institution of slavery distasteful. I doubt we would have had any slaves even had we been able to afford it.”

  McFadden could see disapproval in Mrs. Turnbow’s face and had to repress a smile.

  “What sort of men are in your regiment, Sergeant?” Annie asked, rather too anxiously.

  “All sorts,” McFadden answered. “The recruits of 1861 came mostly from the northeastern part of Texas. New recruits raised in late 1862 came from all over the state.”

  “And the rest of the brigade?” Robert Turnbow asked, a professional interest in his voice.

  “There is the 10th Texas Infantry, an independent regiment like the 7th. The other regiments were made by consolidating other infantry regiments and cavalry units that have been dismounted. No o
ne could ever agree on what to call these new regiments, so they just jammed all the numbers together. There is the 6th/15th Texas, the 17th/18th Texas, and the 24th/25th Texas. It sounds awkward, but somehow it works. Sometimes they attach other regiments to the brigade for short stints, boys from states other than Texas, but we don’t pay too much attention to them. We’re a Texas brigade through and through.”

  “Can any of the men read and write?” Teresa Turnbow asked.

  “I know none who cannot, actually,” he answered, suppressing the offense he took at her question. “Most of the men could read before they enlisted. A few of our men were schoolteachers before the war, and they gave regular lessons to those who could not read or write until they became proficient.”

  “Oh? That is surprising.”

  “Not all Texans are savages, ma’am.”

  Teresa Turnbow’s face became darkly clouded. She was obviously not used to being corrected. McFadden heard Annie laugh softly, which pleased him.

  He continued. “The men value their reading and writing skills because letters to and from home are the only contact they have with their families. Since the fall of Vicksburg, it’s been virtually impossible for anyone to the regiment to visit Texas.”

  “How do the letters cross the Mississippi River?” Mr. Turnbow asked, enjoying the conversation and apparently not offended by McFadden’s retort to his wife.

  “They are smuggled across by brave and dedicated men. It would warm your heart to see the faces of the men of my regiment when a packet of mail arrives.”

  “And when did you last receive a letter, Sergeant?” Teresa Turnbow asked.

  McFadden didn’t answer immediately. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robert Turnbow shake his head slightly, telling his wife that it was not a good subject to discuss. Annie frowned, uncertain as to what the problem was but sensing that McFadden deserved her sympathy.

  “I have not received a letter in some time. I have no living relatives.”

  “Oh,” Teresa said, embarrassed at her mistake. “I am sorry. None at all?”

  “Some cousins in Scotland, I believe. But I have never had any contact with them. Truth be told, I would not know how to contact them.”

  “Perhaps one day?” Annie offered.

  McFadden smiled slightly. “Perhaps. I actually would very much like to meet them. I do long to see the mother country.”

  It had been a long time since McFadden had thought this, though it was true. His mother had often cried softly after recounting to him how beautiful Scotland was and how sad she had been when they had left.

  The ham and sweet potatoes were delicious, being far better than anything McFadden had eaten during his time with the 7th Texas. The punch was also good. He listened to Teresa and Annie tell stories about life on the home front, some silly and others sobering. He and Robert discussed the similarities and differences of the Army of Northern Virginia and the Army of Tennessee and gamely debated which force was superior. Over time, McFadden was surprised to feel himself relaxing.

  He would have gone back to his regiment a happy man had he eaten nothing but the ham. When the dessert, a freshly-baked chess pie, was placed before him, he thought he had gone to heaven. The smile on his face must have been obvious.

  “You seem to be enjoying your pie,” Annie observed, a hint of playfulness creeping into her voice.

  “Truly, I have not eaten anything so delicious in a very, very long time.”

  “You seem somewhat surprised,” Mr. Turnbow observed.

  “I was simply wondering where all the produce has come from. We have next to nothing on the front lines aside from army-issued cornmeal. Any beef or pork we are given is barely this side of rotten. If I knew how you came across all this, I thought I might collect some money from the men of my regiment and perhaps supplement our rations with some proper food.”

  Teresa’s face curled into a disapproving scowl and she dropped her napkin onto the table. But Robert’s face lit up with a smile.

  “His name is Ponder. He runs what I might call a grocery store here in town. If you have the money, he can get you just about anything you want. You name it. Chickens, hams, flour, sugar, even coffee. How he gets the coffee, I have no idea. But then, I don’t ask.”

  “It’s unseemly!” Mrs. Turnbow interjected. “A negro having that much money. A negro having any money at all, by God! How can you do business with a negro, Robert? How can you do business with a negro who should be out in the cotton fields!”

  “Ponder is a negro?” McFadden asked, confused.

  “He is,” Robert responded.

  “Free?”

  “No, he’s technically still a slave. But his owner is a clueless white woman who lives outside of town. She gave him permission to let himself out as a laborer here in the city a few years ago, having little interest in what he was doing. He still pays her a trifling sum each month to keep her out of his hair and the law off his back. In the meantime, he has made himself a fortune as a merchant trader. Like I said, if you have the money, he can get you just about anything you want.”

  “I should like the address of his store, if you don’t mind,” McFadden said.

  “Easily done.”

  “Unseemly,” Mrs. Turnbow said again. “The proper place for a negro is either in the field or serving at the table.”

  She was saying these words just as Mattie and her male counterpart came back in to take away the plates of the dessert service. McFadden noticed that it had not occurred to her to tone down what she was saying when the two slaves had reentered the room.

  “If this Ponder fellow has a good head for business, I don’t see why he shouldn’t be allowed to make as much money as anybody else,” McFadden said. He knew he was goading Mrs. Turnbow now, but did not mind. He sensed that it pleased both Annie and her father, who were the two whose opinion he genuinely valued.

  “How can you say that?” Mrs. Turnbow asked. “God clearly intended the white to rule over the black. Why else would He have created them with such distinctions of color?”

  McFadden said nothing, but his mind immediately conjured up a memory of his parents singing beside the fireside during the long winter nights. As if he had heard them yesterday, he remembered the words of “The Slave’s Lament” by Robert Burns.

  It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthrall,

  For the lands of Virginia, -ginia, O;

  Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more

  And alas! I am weary, weary O!

  Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more

  And alas! I am weary, weary O!

  McFadden himself did not know what he thought about slavery. His father had considered it nothing but an eccentric aspect of Southern culture which they, being immigrants, should simply accept. His mother, though, had been staunchly opposed to it, finding it utterly incompatible with the principles of Christianity.

  When he really thought about it, which was not often, McFadden thought that perhaps slavery was wrong, but that there was nothing to be done about it. The institution was so deeply engrained in Southern society that one might as well have tried to drain the Mississippi River as to eradicate it. While he had listened to his father discuss and debate issues such as the Mexican War, the tariff, the possibility of a trans-continental railroad, he had never heard him discuss slavery outside the family. McFadden had taken this as a sign that talk on the subject was probably inadvisable.

  He glanced over at Annie and was somewhat surprised to see her pursing her lips and looking at her mother with disapproval. Was she embarrassed by what her mother was saying? Might she, perhaps, harbor emancipationist sentiments similar to what his own mother had often expressed?

  Mr. Turnbow decided to subtly change the subject. “If the men of your regiment are lacking in proper provisions, perhaps I can help organize some relief.”

  “Relief, sir?”

  “Perhaps I might arrange the purchase of some produce a
nd arrange for it to be sent to the 7th Texas? Perhaps some meat as well?”

  McFadden considered this for a moment. He worried that the other regiments in Granbury’s Brigade might be resentful and jealous, but the thought of fresh beef and perhaps even fresh vegetables was simply too much to pass up.

  “We could not accept such generosity, sir.”

  “Nonsense. It would be little trouble for me.”

  “Well, I am sure all the men would be deeply grateful.”

  “Annie can help organize the effort,” he said, nodding across the table at his daughter.

  “Me?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Daughter, my time is constantly taken up with affairs at the iron foundry. We’re still producing artillery in some quantity, and I will also be seeing to the evacuation of some of the heavier equipment in the next few days. Obviously, I have no time to devote to a charitable project. And you yourself have been complaining of boredom quite a bit of late.”

  “Boredom?” McFadden asked, glancing at Annie.

  “My school has shut down. My parents forbid me to serve in the hospitals as a nurse. I have been sewing socks for the soldiers with a collection of other ladies, but there are only so many pairs of socks one can sew before going mad.”

  “Perhaps your father is correct, then,” McFadden said. “Helping organize food packages for the men of my regiment would not only be very much appreciated by the men on the front lines, but would help you find something to do with your time.” A hint of playfulness was now creeping into his own voice.

  “It is decided, then,” Mr. Turnbow said with decisiveness. “Annie, I shall place a certain amount of money at your disposal. You can take it to Ponder’s shop, or wherever else you think you may be able to acquire produce at a good price. You and Sergeant McFadden can then arrange between yourselves how to transport the supplies to his regiment.”

  “I shall not have my daughter go into that negro’s store!” Teresa exclaimed, an aghast expression covering her face.

  “Why not?” Robert countered. “My dear, she is no longer a girl but has become a young woman. She must learn to fend for herself. Surely she is capable of going into a shop on her own.”