Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine (4 page)

Mr. Turner had built a bench swing before the war and fastened it to hang under the massive arbor his own father had constructed.
As Vivianna sat down on Mr. Turner
’
s swing, she was reminded of yet another life stripped from the earth—for Mr. Turner had enlisted even before his sons.
He
’
d died early in the war.
It was a widowed Savannah Turner who had watched her two eldest sons ride away to battle.

Vivianna pushed at the ground with her well-worn shoes.
As the swing began to sway back and forth
,
she gazed up to the vine overhead.
Already heavy with honeysuckle blossoms
,
the vine covered every space of the arbor. Even as a child
,
Vivianna had loved the Turners
’
honeysuckle vine
,
often spending hours upon hours beneath its shady shelter.
Frequently she had imagined the vine-covered arbor was a house
,
a house made of honeysuckle. Certainly the arbor was as large as a small dwelling.
Every year the Turners would prune back the vine at each end of the arbor
;
otherwise the tangle of vines, leaves
,
and blossoms would swallow up even the open space within it.
The vine had grown unruly during the war
,
branching out even to the nearby trees
,
engulfing an old wagon abandoned nearby as well.
Still, Vivianna loved it!
The arbor
with
honeysuckle was her space of serenity—and love—for now and then she liked to imagine Justin
’
s spirit lingered there
,
as if he too w
ere
finding haven in the arms of the fragrant vine.

Vivianna reached into her skirt pocket, drawing out the letter she ever carried there—the letter she had silently vowed she would always carry.

The paper upon which the letter was written was becoming fragile
,
weakened with so much handling and rereading.
Yet carefully she unfolded the pages of Justin
’
s cherished letter
,
pressing them to her face in a vain attempt to catch a lingering trace of the scent of the fallen man she so loved.

She studied the first page—traced Justin
’
s rather disheveled script with her fingertips.
She thought that all the while he had been writing it
,
all the while he had been thinking of her.
A vision of the dead soldiers she
’
d seen in
Florence
when the Yankees had attacked entered her mind.
Their faces had been dirt-streaked, pale
,
and often their cold, dead eyes had stared blindly at passersby or into the raining sky.
A horrified shiver ran through her
,
yet she would not think of Justin lying dead in an open field.
She would not imagine him propped up against a tree trunk, bleeding out onto the soft
Georgia
grass as General Sherman rode on—the Alabama
First
Calvary accompanying along his Savannah Campaign.
No!
She would only think of Justin Turner as he
’
d appeared the last time she
’
d seen him
:
handsome, strong
,
vibrant
,
and hopeful
.

“
My Darling Vivianna
,
”
she began to read aloud.
New tears stung her violet eyes
,
as ever they did when she read Justin
’
s letters—especially this one
,
for it was her most cherished.

I beg you; do
not be angry with me for so intimate a beginning to this letter.
B
y now you must know my mind addresses you as my darling…for you are so dear and darling to me.
It is true you have always been dear to me
,
yet now you are even so deeply more dear
,
more dear than you may ever know.
You have saved me, sweet Vivianna.
It is many the time I have been in despair, injured, hurt, hungry, cold
,
or alone that your sweet letters comfort me.
There is one particular I carry with me
.
I am hoping you will remember it if I make reference to it here.
It was the letter of last June
 
16
th
, 1863
,
in which you enclosed a photograph of yourself
—
of your beautiful self
,
a photograph I gaze upon each night before I take my sleep, that I might rest with the vision of your loving face in my mind.
Do you remember this letter, sweet Vivianna?
I will write a piece
here that you might remember:
“
T
he honeysuckle is heavy on your grandfather
’
s old arbor.
At times, I sit beneath it in wondering at the old arbor being strong enough to support it yet.
I have gone there every day this spring and summer
to think and to wish you were home…to wish you were here with me.
It seems there are more blossoms than ever I remember seeing before
,
and they are soft yellow and bright pink, and their nectar more sweet than any other year, I think.
Whenever I am able, I slip away to the arbor and the vine.
There I imagine you are home again…that you and I are together on your father
’
s swing
,
talking of family and friends
,
of long summer
walks and pollywogs in puddles…
”

Though I cannot tell you why, Vivi
—
for perhaps I do not know why myself
—
I ever think of you beneath the honeysuckle vine.
I imagine you are waiting for me there
,
that you will be waiting there when I return.
I make a promi
se to you now, Vivianna Bartholo
mew
.
I promise this
: W
hen I return
,
we will meet beneath the honeysuckle vine, and I will kiss you such a kiss as you have never known before.
It is what I dream of
. A
midst the nightmares of battle and death
,
often there comes to me a dream of
you
,
of you and I together beneath the honeysuckle vine
,
and I awake improved and hopeful
,
for there is something for me to fight for now…you, my darling.

On the battlefield, or at the campfire, there are moments when your
sweet
face will appear before me.
Those brief visions of you rescue me…for I will not die and never meet you beneath the honeysuckle.
That is what I think
—
when the stench of death and fighting is all around me
,
when the noise of the cannons seems to echo forever in my ears
,
as we bury our fellow soldiers and want for food and comfort
,
I think of you and me there beneath that arbor
,
bathed in the fragrance of honeysuckle…sharing kisses as sweet as their nectar.
You, Vivianna…you are why I continue to live.

I confess it…I confess that I love you.
I have written it here in hoping you will not refuse the offer of my heart.
It belongs to you, Vivianna.
You alone will own my love…forever.

I fight for you, Vivianna.
I fight to
come
to you…to
live…
so that we may linger together beneath the honeysuckle vine.

May God protect and keep you, my love
.

Vivianna brushed the tears from her cheeks—let her fingers tenderly trace the lone character Justin had signed the letter with.
She drew the letter to her face once more
,
kissed the familiar and beloved initialed signature.

“
Oh, Justin!
”
she breathed.
“
I feel as if I can
’
t go on!
Sometimes I just think…I just think…
”

Vivianna swallowed
and
inhaled a deep breath.
Folding the letter
,
she returned it to the pocket of her skirt.
She could not let her passionate emotions rise.
She could not linger on thoughts of all she had lost.
She would not think of her parents, of Sam or Augie.
To think of them would mean collapse
;
she was certain of it.
It was everything she could manage to will her heart to continue to beat when the loss of Justin was so painful.
She could not think of the others.
Vivianna had grown to know that war was far more destructive to the human soul and heart than it was even to the landscape, towns
,
or cities.
Each morning she awoke with thoughts of her family
yet pushed them to the far corners of her mind.
She could not linger on the whole of it—not yet.

She had spent enough time in misery for one day.
Thus, Vivianna stood
,
inhaled one last breath of the sweet honeysuckle beneath which she would never meet Justin Turner
,
and walked.
She knew where her feet would lead her
,
though she further knew it would only bring her more pain.
Still, though she would not linger on the deaths of so many loved ones, she did not want them to look down from heaven and think she did not miss and mourn them.
Thus, she wandered to the small cemetery nestled in the meadow in the center of a grove of dogwood trees.
It was not more than half a mile from the house—a small cemetery belonging to the Turner family.
Mr. Turner
’
s parents and his eldest brother were among those resting beneath the cool, fragrant grass.
Sadly, Mr. Turner did not rest with them
,
having fought and died far from home.
Savannah
had begged Vivianna to let her parents be interred there
instead of in the cemetery in
Florence
.
Though there were many northern Alabamians who had silently or otherwise supported the Union during the war, the Union raids on
Florence
had hardened many of those hearts
,
as well as causing further hatred of the
Union
and its Yankees to grow among local Confederates.
Thus, Vivianna
’
s parents, Victor and Mary Bartholomew, were laid to rest in the Turner family cemetery where none could defile their graves for the sake of their two sons
,
who had been lost defending the
Union
.

Oddly, the short walk to the old cemetery helped Vivianna to surface from the melancholy heartache she
’
d been lingering in within the arbor.
The dogwoods were beginning to bloom
,
and the wildflowers and grass were mellow and sweet in their perfumed offerings.
The birds were plentiful in the trees
,
chirping songs of happiness
,
of carefree springs to come and nests filled with tiny eggs of hope in further generations—generations that would not know the scent and sight of battle and bloodshed.

As she walked
,
as she meandered toward the meadow and gravestones nestled midst the dogwoods
,
Vivianna pulled the pins from her long sable hair
,
allowing it to hang freely down her back.
Combing it with her fingers, she wished she could always wear her hair free.
She fancied it calmed her—made her feel not quite so worried and tired.
Slowly she wove it into a soft, loose braid
,
securing it with a strand of itself
and letting the braid rest over her right shoulder.

Stepping into the small clearing, Vivianna was immediately struck with the sense of warm sunshine—of peacefulness and rest.
In truth, she had never feared cemeteries the way others seemed to.
In fact, as a child, it was often she would wander to the Turner cemetery
and
sit in contemplation at the etchings on the gravestones.
She liked to think that all those spirits who had left their bodies to sleep in the soft earth were watching from heaven
,
happy to see that a little child cared enough to read what was written over their graves.
She imagined they all smiled as she wove dandelion chains or gathered nosegays of fresh violets to place by each stone.
In truth, she
’
d learned every epitaph
,
every name of every person buried there
,
and often tried to imagine who they had been and what they had loved.
Had they gathered flowers as children?
Had they laughed and played
,
sung with the birds?
Had they sat at the edge of the pond, sinking their toes into the mud as pollywogs tickled their ankles?
As a child, Vivianna was certain each and every one of them had done just these things
,
and she had adored knowing it.
Yet since the war, she
’
d begun to wonder how many of those who rested
a
mid the dogwoods had known pain as well.
Surely all
,
for pain was certainly as much a part of life as were muddy toes.